


Phantasmagoria

by frangipani



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, BDSM, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation kink, Identity Issues, Idfic, Impact Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Underworld, aaaaangst, apparently luke does too, beautiful dumpster fire luke, but i have a messed up sense of humor, erotic paperwork, feel good violence, frangi writes a holothriller, hi i'm frangi and i have a femdom problem, i kinda think all of this is hilarious, luke skywalker is just an ordinary guy really, no command, post-Shadows of Mindor, vaguewriting, will end well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-29 08:31:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani/pseuds/frangipani
Summary: Reeling from personal demons post-Mindor and wanting an escape from his public persona, Luke Skywalker contracts the services of a shadow agency. The proctor they provide is just as much a blessing as a curse, and of course, everything spirals down from there.





	1. Proctor

**Author's Note:**

> Caveat lector: this is less, _much_ less edited than my usual offerings, I just wanted to push it out as quickly as possible and focus on the fun part of writing (even with that I wrote this, what? A week ago? More? UGH). 
> 
> Basically this is drawerfic, so expect jurassic plotholes, more implausibles than usual, worse proofing, and Luke Skywalker being a high functioning dumpster fire. Welcome to my [id vortex](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Id_Vortex).
> 
> **on hiatus as of 3/16 will return after Thresholds is done.
> 
> That doesn't stop me from procrastinating. Cover and mini playlist [here.](http://teagrl.tumblr.com/post/172176618297/since-i-cant-get-keep-from-procrastinating)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Our proctors are the cornerstone of the services we provide. They will guide you, the beneficiary, through an experience uniquely tailored to you. These are specialists in whatever area you have indicated interest in and possess the integrity and vigilance essential to ensure your safety and satisfaction. We have appended the match below for your consideration._

Luke pulls the cloak tighter around himself as he makes his way through the narrow streets of Sibisime. On the face of it Sibisime is another Mid Rim planet, no better or worse than any. Like so many planets close to the Empire's waning influence, it has become a hub for shady underworld ventures.

The cloudcutter’s entryway has a receptionist who asks for the passcode.

Luke pushes his hood back and gives it. The bored-looking Devaronian doesn’t even blink as she gestured to a turbolift. There are no floor listings no panels in the turbolift. He assumes the receptionist that controlled it would send it where it needs to go.

It's never pleasant to be in someone else’s hands like this, but there’d been enough encrypted back and forth that he’d been primed on what to expect, and this is part of it. For added caution, there's also the Force disguise he had on. It took more concentration that he would've like, but he only means to use it until he speaks to the woman assigned to him. 

His mind still keeps blaring ill advised, ill advised, _reckless_.

That last one makes his stomach clench. He should be beyond that.

Nick’s voice comes back to him along an unrelated vein. “No one’s beyond that. And sometimes you need somethin’ else.”

Having Nick around had tested his eagerness to encounter other Force sensitives. Nick had only spent exactly one night cycle in the same shuttle as Luke before dropping him off, and it’d been enough for a _diagnosis_.

Alone in the turbolift, Luke shakes his head. The only thing worse than the nightmares is having a total stranger who could feel them and want to _help_.

“Saw it during the war,” Nick’d said, but he’d meant the Clone Wars, incredibly enough. “Some guys just needed to get out of their heads for a while.”

Luke had been skeptical, and besides, he’d handled enough stuff on his own. The nightmares would fade with time. He's meaning to resign his commission anyway – he’d tried already as soon as he got to a comm, but High Command hadn’t let him until he’d, “thought about it with a clear head.” He'd get more coherent maybe, he'd thought with some chagrin after Nick had been able to rip the comm from his hands, but wouldn’t change his mind. At least that meant he can take as much time as he needs to realign himself. That’s what it's all about, nothing more. 

Nick had looked less than convinced when Luke had told him exactly that, but hadn’t pressed the issue. When Luke had been about to depart, Nick had pushed a flimsiplast note with a scribbled name into his hand.

“What we talked about. It’s an agency. Impersonal. Discrete.”

Luke had almost thrown it out after he was back in his own quarters. For one, he still hadn't been interested, and for another, he seriously doubted that some Clone Wars service outlet was still functioning.

The turbolift opened to a corridor, lights activating as he walks down.

A way to get out of his head.

Luke sighs out as he got to the end of the hall. A door slides open there to an outer reception area. It's bizarre, as if he were here to meet a functionary of some sort. A bureaucrat.

There had been that much paperwork, he reflects. It'd felt like a joke while he'd filled it out.

A Zeltron man greets him, “Mr. Marcus, Ms. Lorn is expecting you.” He waves him in as an interior door slides open.

Luke walks in, murmuring his thanks, and letting the Force disguise dissolve as the door closes behind him. The room he’d entered was an office, wide, the transparisteel on all sides letting sunlight pour in, an empty desk and a flowform chair behind it. Experience allows him to read it all as genuine as a holofilm set. Part of a specific type of pageantry.

The woman stands looking out to the spacelanes all around, her back to him. She's wearing a business ensemble, gray pants and a blazer to match. The outfit's fitted enough to be worn well, but it doesn't draw the eye as much as her hair, despite it being tied back into a severe bun. Against the muted tones of her clothing, it's a flash of unexpected red-gold, redder than Aeona’s burnt orange shade. 

It's especially surprising, because Luke had turned down all the holos offered of the prospective match. It was a skillset he was paying for, not a body; the more he could distance it from the sordidness of flesh trade, the better.

What would draw a woman into this sort of trade? Any being, really. But then, it was not too long ago he’d wondered what would draw any one into it as a client. He might have even laughed over it with friends as they passed a bottle of whiskey between them, all those times they’d tried to forget how many others weren’t there. A friend before a sortie just earlier that day, now debris in space. An absence.

Seeing it happen, feeling it happen in visceral detail was different. 

_Making_ it happen even more. With no way to ignore it, to forget, the knowledge reorganized the atoms of who you were – and that was just one. Times a thousand, Luke had found, it's all you can do not to fly apart. And just maybe flying apart in other ways could help though he's not certain. Certainties were elusive these days.

Things were so much easier when he was ignorant to the Force.

“You can take a seat,” she says without turning around. Her voice has a crisp Core flow. 

Luke goes over what he knows. Her name is Chiara Lorn, clearly a fake name. The agency had provided medical records, whose veracity he couldn’t speculate on in any case. Personal background had been understandably scant, and he’d been informed that this would not be part of any contract. Chiara reiterated as much during their correspondence once she’d introduced herself as his matched proctor -- an odd title -- via the agency’s system. He’d used an alias himself during all contact, for obvious reasons, but this was no longer an option, now face to face. This might influence whether this would proceed.

He’d opted to let fate decide for once. He's done pushing things in any way for now.

Luke reaches out to get a sense of her through the Force. He can discern no nervousness. Part of the transactional nature of this. She's probably used to it. Would that change when she turned around and saw who he was? It might be a waste of time to sit down.

But _should_ he sit down? He's not clueless to how others perceive him, especially now. In the same conversation where he’d tried to resign his commission, High Command had congratulated him, mentioning a medal, as if killing thousands is a cause for pride. 

He brings his attention back to the woman, her back to him as she stares out the transparisteel. Even if she upsets at the subterfuge, it wouldn’t do to make her feel threatened. And there was the possibility she read it as too familiar after he’d broken the protocols. Maybe it would be best to take the first step.

“I owe you an apology, Ms. Lorn,” he says from where he stands.

She turns around and while there’s no surprise on her face, he senses it clear as day through the Force...she handles the shock with startling ease, and then he senses something else too that he’d been too distracted to notice when he'd come in.

She’s a Force sensitive. 

That’s less exotic after Nick. After Mindor. All of the troops had had some measure of sensitivity. 

She’s much younger than he expected for something like this. His age, possibly, but there’s a sharp cut to her features, like a woman who seldom smiles...or doesn't mean her smiles. She’s untrained. She would have picked him out instantly if she were. _Nick_ did and he wasn’t all that well trained himself.

“I didn’t mean to hide who I was,” he says quickly. “But you understand if this is all a bit...sensitive.”

“Luke Skywalker.” 

He smiles, makes it friendly, he hopes, and nods. 

“And if I’m learning this now it's because no one recognized you.” Her eyes had narrowed.

He nods again, passes a hand in front of his face. “It’s a...disguise.”

She pulls her arms behind her back. “Why would _a Jedi_ have need of the services the agency provides?”

“It was a referral, from a friend.”

She shakes her head and approaches the desk to lean her hip slightly against it. “That’s not what I asked.”

“The reasoning is the same as we discussed,” he offers and he finds it’s much easier to talk about this on a formal register as if he were buying ship parts. “I’m simply interested to see if the controlled situations you...specialize in can...help.”

“Help how?”

Luke draws in a breath. He has a vocabulary for this too. “Result in more centeredness.”

She smiles then. He spies some dark amusement. It suits her. “A Jedi should be able to achieve that in other ways, no?”

Luke nods, but doesn’t break her gaze. He doesn't elaborate. 

“Everything in the documents was accurate,” he adds. “My preferences, er...limits, background, and medical history. And I would actually prefer not to have who I am come up.” He pauses. “I do understand if you’d...decline. You understand why I was not exactly forthcoming...”

To his eyes, Chiara doesn't appear like a woman easily ruffled.

“Who you are is a problem,” she says bluntly. “It’s a matter of safety. You’re sidestepping the agency’s controls.” She purses her lips. “And if word were to get out--”

“Absolutely not.”

“Really?”

“Scrutiny isn’t new to me,” he reminds her. “The same way I could walk in here with no one guessing who I am is the same way that this can remain...discrete.”

“And my own safety?”

His eyes widen. “I wouldn’t--”

“Of course. In normal circumstances. Which these are not. It's rare, but accidents can happen.”

“You have my per--”

She shakes her head.

“I’m not put off by logistics when it comes to me and you have my word that I’ll follow the word of the agreements, but this is a sensitive enough matter that who I am makes you uncomfortable, that’s another issue entirely. I came prepared to accept that.”

Her head tilts to the side. 

He doesn’t know why he’s pressing. Curiosty? “There’s the trial period too.”

That had been covered in the initial agreement, and while this is the most distasteful part of the whole thing, he continues, “I would also pay you double for the inconvenience and the... extra discretion.”

It’s not a small sum, but he won’t miss it. Her professionalism is appealing, he finds, makes the luridness of the whole agreement feel less.

Chiara shakes her head. “That won’t be necessary. The agency will get suspiscious.”

“Is there something else I can provide as...compensation? Or a...guarantee? I understand there’s risk involved in discretion from the agency. In operating outside of its...umbrella.” 

She scrutinizes him and seems to think for a moment. “Your weapon.”

“What?”

“As a guarantee. For the duration of a session. Should something go wrong. It’s a marker. An identifier.”

He swallows, not having expected that.

“Same terms apply?”

He nods. “The exact same ones and like I said I...would rather who I am not come into play during.”

Chiara breathes out. “All right. Do we have an agreement?”

He’s come too far to change his mind. She’s in a far more sensitive position than he is, he reminds himself. Lightsaber or not. . “Yes.”

“I’ll message you the address. Do you have any questions for me?”

Luke stares at her. He has many, but doesn’t think that she’ll answer any of them. She’s turned back to the windows. Her sense's unsettled, but somehow she’s still going through this. He’s more curious than ever.

“No.” 

“Good. You can leave now, Mr. Skywalker.”

It takes him a second to realize that’s him. Is he that used to other titles? He should be glad it’s not any of them, but the curt dismissal also sits uneasily. It’s been ages since he’d heard something like it.

“All right, I’ll wait for the address.” 

She doesn’t respond and he makes his way out.

\--

The address is in the same part of town, but another cloudcutter. The procedure is the same; he identifies himself and this time takes the transparisteel turbolift up to an apartment.

Luke rings the announcer and Chiara opens to a an airy apartment, the mid-afternoon sun washing in through the floor length transparisteel windows that characterize this area's spacescrapers. He chastises himself for the surprise that filters in. What did he expect? A dungeon? 

Chiara's outfit is similar to the one at the office except navy blue, same prim hairdo. He spies a coiled tension in her Force presence as she moves to let him by. 

The door slides shut and she says, “Will your abilities be an issue?”

He blinks at the suddenness of the question. “An issue how?”

“Discomfort. Pain. Will your Jedi powers interfere? I’m not familiar, but--”

He shakes his head. “No. It'd...defeats the purpose...and I’d like to,” he pushes the words out, “I’d like to...stay away from...that for the duration...”

“Good.” She stretches a hand. 

Steeling himself, Luke reaches into his tunic for the concealed lightsaber, and hands it to her. She doesn’t glance at it just goes toward a doorway at the far end of the room. Bedroom?

Chiara returns not long after, she gestures him to the sofa and continues without warning or segue. 

“Your options once we begin are yes, no, stop. Stop is absolute. No is not. You are allowed to go over the contract at any point, but only before and after, never during. Is that clear?”

He nods.

“You’ll call me Chiara and nothing else. Which name do you prefer?”

“Luke,” he says unthinkingly. It feels important though he knows all of this is performance.

Chiara nods and jerks her chin at him. “Stand up.”

The order catches him off guard, he’s still reeling from all the information, but he complies. 

“Take off your clothes. All of them.” 

He jars at the order. “The contract--”

“I’m well aware that sex is not included the contract. Also I didn’t say you could talk.”

Luke quiets as he gets rid of his clothing. Foolishly, he hadn’t expect this. Maybe only his shirt. It dawns on him he doesn’t know what to expect exactly. 

He sneaks a glance as he strips and she’s looking at him like she’d look out a window, just vaguely interested. And yes, Chiara is attractive, but he won’t dwell on that now. He begins to blush. It’s unnerving to take off his clothes in front of a stranger like this. 

Chiara makes a spinning motion with her hand. Indicating he’s to turn around. His face feels like it’s on fire. He’s beginning to wonder what else he agreed to without thinking it through. 

“Arms behind your head.” 

She stands and walks over, and the way she does it resembles a stalk, but he’s not sure if he’s not imagining things just from the punch of embarrassment. She does a slow, meandering walk around him, examining him in a way that's not vague at all. It takes a surprising amount of willpower not to grab his clothing back and cover himself. He keeps his eyes elsewhere the entire time. When he declared sex off limits he’d thought it covered things like this too. 

“Being naked makes you uncomfortable?” She sounds amused.

“This is the first time I’ve done this.”

Chiara tsks. “Not what I asked.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me why.”

That’s an uncomfortable question. He finds himself shrugging at it. “Isn’t everyone?”

“Not an answer. That’s a bad habit.”

“No one wants to be judged.”

She’s circled back in front of him. “You think I’m judging you?”

Luke smiles at her. “You look at me like you are.”

Chiara doesn’t smile back. And he supposes that’s the point of it all. Discomfort, she'd said. Knowing that makes it easier and he’s begun to settle down from being so exposed when her hand darts out to just over his breastbone to trace one of his scars. Instinctively, he takes a step back.

That' a smirk. “Skittish. Go fold your clothes.”

Not...what he expected either, but it’s easy to comply, and for a few seconds he does forget that he doesn’t have a stitch on and that she’s watching him. 

He feels her eyes on him when he’s done, and he’s loathe to turn around, but does it anyway, meeting her eyes.

“Anything else?”

Her expression tightens. “We have to do something about that tone.”

And...that’s not a bad idea, considering what he’s paying for, which is certainly not to do housework. 

“Am I going to stay naked the entire time?”

“I didn’t say you could talk.”

“Didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“Cute. For that you get to go and face the wall.Squat. On your toes and stay there until I tell you.”

Luke waits for more, but there isn’t any. It’s an uncomfortable position, and one he could keep for much longer if he relied on the Force, but that’s not the point. He can’t see Chiara though, doesn’t know if she’s watching him. He wonders when she’ll call this off, if she will at all. 

This is nothing like he expected. By this time he thought he’d be losing space to think, but right now even though his calves are burning he can do nothing other than think, and when he does the only thing that he thinks of is screaming. Masses of it. 

“Up,” she says sometime later. He stands on shaky legs. 

Chiara goes to sit on the couch and gestures to the floor. “Sit.” 

Distracted, he does as she asks, startles and flinches again when her hand lowers to his head. Luke jerks his head up towards her. 

“Eyes ahead,” she dictates. “Let me guess, this isn’t what you thought.”

He almost blurts out that no it isn’t, but recalls he’d been just sent to face the wall like a child when he spoke without her asking. He suspects he’ll be sent back if he does it again. 

Her hand hasn’t withdrawn from his hair, fingers playing just above his ear, and that’s stopped feeling strange. Now it’s oddly soothing, and he doesn’t want to trade that for more ache.

What's wrong with him? 

“You can talk. It’s not, is it?”

“No.”

“Your legs are fine?”

He nods. A little sore, but negligible.

“Who gave you the referral?”

“Just a friend. Said the agency has been around since the Clone Wars.”

She doesn't take the bait, but she doesn’t stop stroking his head either, and he finds himself sighing and leaning into her touch.

I don’t know her, he repeats to himself. The incongruity of it all baffles him. She's a total stranger.

The announcer rings, and she stands to get the door, brings back a bag with a restaurant logo. 

“Dinner,” she says and places it on the table. “Serve it.”

At least, he spared some humor, she hadn’t asked him to cook naked. 

He does as she asks, and goes to get his food and utensils, but her hand snakes out . She grabs the utensils. “No.”

Luke stares at her oddly. “It’s soup.”

“Didn’t say you could talk.”

With an exhale, Luke grabs the container and is going to sit when she snaps her fingers and gestures beside her chair. It’s patently ridiculous, but he goes, container in hand. As he drinks the soup he can’t stop mulling over the fact that he paid for hurt and is being treated like a pet. Maybe he wasn’t clear enough, he thought plucking the vegetables with his hand. Han will never know about this.

Chiara orders him to clean up which by now comes as no surprise. It’s all under her eyes, and that has a specific weight that he’s having trouble putting his finger on. He’s used to being stared at, but not like this. Every time he manages to forget he’s naked, he’s suddenly reminded anew. 

“I don’t share my bed,” she announces once he’s done with the clean up. She gestures for him to follow her to the room, where there’s an antique four post bed, jarring and a little intimidating.

“You sleep there.” She points to a rolled mattress and duvet in front of the bed. 

That suits him better than fine. Chiara leaves to the ‘freshers while he sets them up for himself. It's all domestic in a way he's not used to. Sharing space with friends is one thing. Sharing a space with unknown women is another.

Woman. A woman who’s time he’s paying for.

His stomach twists some more at it. He just wants to finish the trial and go back..he doesn't need this, he knows he just needs to wait the mess of his head out. That's all.

She comes out, clad in a loose sleep tunic shirt and pants, gestures for him to go next. The refresher is large and there’s a wrapped sanibrush, sonic razor, and other personal effects, left for him on the counter. He can’t help nosying for anything that would give any indication of who Chiara is, but nothing sticks out.

Once he leaves, he goes to the mattress and the duvet, her eyes on him from the bed make him miss his clothing. She gestures to the foot of the bed and he sits awkwardly.

“Tell me more about this...referral.”

A laugh seeps out. He doesn't want to talk about Nick now. “Why?”

Her expression hardens. “To the wall. Arms above your head,” she says in a low voice. He contemplates a no, but goes. "Don't lower them until I say so. No linking them either."

Luke recognizes it’s a stress position, and she leaves him in it longer, long enough that he feels it more than before. His arms hurt and tremble with the effort, but he doesn’t say anything, though he realizes abstractly that she could keep him in it for long enough he might have to call for a stop. It's well before that point when she says it's enough. Luke bends his arms, stretches them with a wince, massaging the ache away. These are not showy means of causing physical distress, he remembers hearing, but that doesn't take away that they are effective ones, especially the longer they go.

And he can only think, who is she?

Chiara takes him out of it, just as its shading to uncomfortable and shifts up on the bed, gesturing for him to sit. “Are you getting the pattern?”

From this close he can see the deep green of her eyes. “Yes.”

Her hands are at his arm, she’s doing a better job than he did kneading the muscle, her fingers precise and methodical, some surprising roughness to her hands, fingernails neat, but short.

Chiara decides it’s enough and pulls back, and he’s just a bit disappointed. “I don’t like evasions, questions as answers to questions, and I _hate_ ,” she loads the word with disdain, “smart retorts.” 

Plenty of people don’t in his experience, just shows an appalling lack of humor. He supposes that describes what he’s seen of Chiara, fits with this persona, and maybe it’s a draw to whoever else has purchased her services. The flip in his stomach is back. He wants to slink away from the bed and towards his clothes out in the living room. 

“Pilot, right?”

She knows who he is.

“Did they make trainees memorize core sectors?”

Odd question. He hasn’t thought of flight school in years. He nods again. It's basic knowledge, helpful to index locations when one was charting a flightpath. The Core, he thinks with some wryness, _is_ the center of the universe.

But her hand is at his head again over his ear, touch slight. “Can you still recite them?”

Luke drops his gaze. He can, and before he can overthink it he blurts out, “Alsaka, Atrisian, Azure.” He glances her way and gets the sense that she’s pleased even without reaching out. He can feel the hand stroking idly through his hair as he continues, breaks off with a yawn along the middle, and she draws her hand from his head. 

She juts her chin forward -- to the mattress, his muddled head supplies. “Go sleep.”

Luke walks over to the mattress thinking that another bit of weirdness is the strangeness of being tired. He hasn’t done anything at all. He slides himself on it. Something’s off and he sits up. He should probably get his usual meditation in.

“What are you doing?” Chiara’s voice rings out.

“Meditating.” He pulls himself into position.

“Don’t.”

Luke freezes. Chiara has scooted on the edge of the bed, expression serious. “Not while you have my time.”

It’s just twenty four hours. By this time tomorrow he’ll be in his X-wing going home. 

Under Chiara’s eyes, he drops back and lies on his side. He’ll file this as one of his most bizarre experiences. No one ever need to know. He closes his eyes.

\--

There’s a sun burning death down on a world. The sky is covered with ash. On the ground whole troops collapse, like grass underfoot.

Luke wakes up with a soft gasp. There’s sounds of movement in the kitchen. The minute he sits up, he’s reminded of everything by the fact that he’s naked. At least, Chiara is not in the room. 

He’s that much closer to being done with all this, he reminds himself as he goes into the ‘fresher. 

With some reluctance, he walks out into the living room, an eye passing over his folded clothes on the chaise.

“Good morning,” he greets.

Chiara has been scanning her datapad, mug of caf beside her on the table, dressed in a new pantsuit set. She lifts her eyes to him in an appraising stare as she echoes the greeting back. He swallows, wanting to bolt back into the room. 

Her eyes drop back to her datapad though she gestures with a dismissive hand. “You can put your underwear back on, if you want.”

He definitely does want, and moves to go slide the briefs on. It does feel like things are on the upswing, that much closer to being something he can forget about. 

Chiara snaps her fingers and points beside her with her index finger without pulling away from whatever's on her screen. There’s a bowl on the floor. Luke frowns just a little bit more, but goes. Her hand drops to his head, weaves in his hair, and he wants to find the gesture condescending, especially in this context -- she has him sitting on the floor beside her chair like a pet -- but leans ever so slightly into her touch instead, flinches a bit when he realizes he’s doing it.

Luke grabs the bowl finding that it’s muja fruit and fermented milk. Too thick to drink in, he’s going to end up with a mess if he uses his hands.

“You’re sure I can’t be allowed a spoon?” he grumbles.

Chiara looks at him like he’s said something nonsensical. 

Luke puts the bowl down. “I’d like a spoon, please.”

For a second, there's no response. He spoken without being asked something -- will there be punishment? But she reaches to hand him one. He can’t help but eye it suspiciously. It’s small as far as spoons go, but it’s more pleasant than making a mess. He’s almost done when Chiara looks over.

“What’s that?”

Luke glances to where she’s pointing -- a couple of drops spilled on the floor. He puts the bowl down. “I’ll clean it up.”

“You don’t need to go anywhere for that,” she says mildly.

What is that supposed to mean? “You have a towel?”

Chiara shakes her head. "You're overdressed anyway."

His eyes widen. "No" leaves him automatically. He's not about to use his underwear as a washcloth.

She pulls her shoulders back a bit.

Another stress position. Fine.

But instead, she says, “Go to the room. Both hands on the lower left bedpost.”

Again, there’s the temptation to decline. This is clearly not working for him, except that a shot of curiosity raises him from the floor and has him ambling to the room. Maybe a more complicated stress position than the two yesterday. Or...maybe not and a hot pulse of anticipation thrums with every minute he waits. He thinks back to all the documents permissions and...implements...but his thoughts twine with no coherence. By instinct he almost goes back to his center, but at the last minute pulls back. That's not the point. But how long he can stay in this disordered space...?

Finally, Chiara walks in. She goes to the bed, crouches and pulls out a small bag from under, pulls out an implement, a handle as long as Chiara's forearm with a flat broad blade at the end. A paddle. 

Chiara turnes with it in hand. 

“On the bedpost,” she raises her voice just a bit. He's let go. He hadn't noticed.

Luke put his hands back up while she circles behind him. He added his increased heartrate as part of the surprises of the past twenty minutes. It’s just a paddle.

Chiara stays quiet for several beats then prompted quietly. “Yes, no, stop?”

His mouth works for a few moments before he pushes out, "Yes.”

This is what he paid for isn’t it? Isn’t it? He knows it is, he just doesn't know what took so long. Or maybe he was expecting something else? What? Luke swallows as the smooth surface of the paddle drags down one side of his ass through the cloth of his briefs. He breaks into gooseflesh, a tingly feeling spreading all over him that pulls down. With some horror he realizes he’s hard, and his hands fall from the bedpost --

“Back on.”

He does so unthinkingly, but shifts in a vain effort to cover himself. Keeps his eyes on the smooth slope of the bedpost.

“Don’t move.”

He tamps down on the urge to stretch out with the Force. That's not the point of this. His breath fast in his ears, his muscles locking up. It’s a bad idea, the best thing is to simply get himself to relax --

The strike hits with a sting that sends him forward and makes him cry out. It’s not hard at all, so when the shock fades, embarrassment takes its place. His hands scrabble back to their original position.

Luke expects another strike, but the seconds lengthen. His breaths stay sharp as the stinging fades into a throb.

Finally, Chiara speaks. “Yes, n--”

“Yes."

Luke takes the second hit better, doesn’t humiliate himself by crying out again. It hurts more only because it’s the same spot, and the pain builds with every pass, more so because Chiara’s increased her speed, and soon his breathing’s ragged and he can’t think over the solid thud of the paddle against his skin. She stops.

“Yes.” He leans his head against the post, eyes closed. The material is cool against his forehead. “Yes.”

The paddle drags again down his sore skin through the cloth, but instead of the strike he expects. It leaves to drag down the other side, the anticipation somehow worse. Or better.

Luke doesn’t cry out when she strikes again, but it’s a close thing. The strikes come faster. Occasionally the pain crescendoes when she alternates with the other side. The impact pulls a grunt out of him making him arch. It hurts as much as he wants it to, leaving no space for shame or regret or memories, nothing. He may as well not be here at all.

Chiara stops.

“Yes,” he mumbles. "Yes."

“You’ve had enough,” she says. “Get on the bed.” 

He feels...tired, too tired to argue and he doesn’t care to. He goes on his stomach on the bed, sinks his head into his arms. There’s still the vague throbbing at his ass, and an accompanying soreness across his shoulders, at his back. 

Chiara’s hand smooths over his head.

“You did well, Luke” she murmurs, and there is a part of him that thinks _none_ of this makes sense, but it’s drowned out by the other part that turns over in his chest, the part that sends him forward, seeking for more contact with an incoherent noise. The fabric of her pantsuit is soft against his cheek as her hand strokes his head. If she pulls away, he has the sickening thought that he might cry.

Chiara doesn't though, just strokes his head until the tension drains from him. Everything just shuts down.

Luke doesn’t sleep, or at least, he doesn’t think so. He remains where he is, his head pillowed on this unknown woman’s lap, feeling tired and sore, and for the moment blissfully _empty_ , like there’s only his breath in him, aware of only her hand stroking his hair.

“Would you like to stay here or eat something?”

He shifts suddenly, the discomfort flying in and he pulls away, feeling his face heat up. His ass hurts as he sits up, he shifts uncomfortably, reddening more at her eyes on him. 

“It should be better in a couple of hours. If it’s not, you let me know. I guess this means you’d like to eat?” 

With nothing better in mind, he nods.

“All right. I’ll call for lunch.” Chiara lifts up from the bed. He stays behind for a while listening as she works the comm.

\--

Luke walks back into the living room when the annunciator rings for food. There’s a plate of dumplings. Chiara sets some on a plate and deposits it beside her. He’s not a fan still, but his stomach is rumbling so he goes, sore, but already feeling better. He idly picks up a dumpling. 

Chiara has a bowl of soup before her and once she’s done with it, her hand is back on his hair.

This is what people pay for, the thought takes shape in his head. No explanations, no nothing. He finds himself leaning slightly against her leg, glances up wondering if this is all right, but her hand hasn’t withdrawn. It continues stroking gently. She’s on her datapad, engrossed in something. 

She’s not engrossed enough to miss when he’s done and passes him a hand wipe. For a long time after, he stays sitting beside her hair, her hand still at his head. She withdraws it and meets his eyes. 

“I think we’re both done.” She gestured to the empty containers and he goes to clean everything up. He lingers in the kitchen awkwardly until she snaps her fingers gesturing to the spot where he was. 

It’s clear, and he settles in when her hand lowers back into his hair. That's it, and that’s not too bad. He feels...lighter somehow. There’s not much to think about. Whatever he’s to do she’ll simply ask. He leans back against her leg. 

Time passes quietly. He’ll reflect later the effect like shallow meditation, but...different. He’s roused from it when Chiara moves to stand.

“It’s almost time,” she says, and gestured to his clothes on the chaise. She leaves the room and comes back with the lightsaber, places it beside his clothing.

Luke stands up, the awkward feeling returning at the reminder of the circumstances. With it comes some sheepishness. He goes to get his clothes without looking at her.

“You can dress in the refresher, if you like.” 

Luke goes, relieved. How could he have lost track of time? He slides back his tunic and his pants, trying not to think of being sore. He should be glad that time’s soon to be up, but it’s not relief what surfaces. He won’t extend what this was. Luke clips the lightsaber to his belt. He’s still certain he won’t be continuing. 

He leaves the ‘fresher and goes back to the living room.

Chiara meets his eyes. “How do you feel?”

He can’t really say anything but “Fine.”

“I will be contacting you tomorrow to inquire further,” she says, business-like. “The agency will be in touch with my documentation of the trial.”

Luke tilts his head. “Documentation?”

“It’s common procedure. All of the proctors are required to provide a summation after every session for the beneficiary. This allows dialogue over what’s to come, corrective, if need be. Since this is a trial, the document should help you decide whether you intend to continue or not.”

“I trust you won’t--”

“Reveal your identity, no. We agreed on this earlier.”

“I wish you’d at least allow me to pay you for the--”

“The agency won’t allow it,” she interrupts with some impatience. “And they might be curious enough to investigate further if more than the sum is paid, so it’s in your best interest not to.” Chiara waves a hand. “It’s not an inconvenience as far as this session goes. Whatever I document won’t mention it. I don’t anticipate it being a problem.”

For a reason he can’t pin down this...heartens him. 

Chiara goes to sit on the table. “That’s the time. I will be in contact. Good-bye, Mr. Skywalker.”


	2. Needs Must

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greetings, Mr. Marcus. I was happy to chat with you over the comm and find that you are well. What follows is the standard documentation I mentioned. This includes a detailed summation of what transpired, a first appendix of implements used, and a second appendix with attached notes and inquiries. The agency requires your perusal and response to the second appendix should you wish to proceed with more sessions._

A week later, Luke gets a call from an unknown encrypted number to his comm. He doesn’t recognize the voice at all, he’s just leaving from a meeting, but the female voice in the other line identifies herself as Chiara Lorn. The ensuing conversation isn’t long enough to be uncomfortable, or to be considered a conversation at all, if Luke’s being honest. Chiara asks how he feels, if there’s been any issues, as if she’s a physician checking in. 

He replies that he’s still fine, and she informs him, he should have the documents by the end of today. With that, she says good-bye and closes the line.

Luke stares at his comm in his hands. He hadn't forgotten, but his session with Chiara simply hadn’t been on his mind. This is the second call he’s gotten after the initial one a day after and he’d forgotten about that one too. The second he landed at Coruscant, he’d simply been swept up by tasks. There was that medal to turn down, his commission to resign, and archives to bury his head in. Of course, that last switched around depending which senator wanted to make his acquaintance. Networking, Leia had said emphatically, was what would open doors for however he goes about passing what he's learned. There's also the disturbed feeling he gets whenever he thinks about the session -- more incentive to keep his focus on the here and now.

While he puts the comm out of mind, the document he receives late that night is another matter. It’s a debrief pretty much, dry and meticulous, embarrassing, and...titillating in a way he doesn’t want to dwell on, because that part’s even more absurd than his having gone through with the whole thing to begin with. 

Luke deletes the file almost immediately after reading it which he did redfaced with occasional furtive looks, despite being completely alone in his apartment. 

He leaves his datapad at his desk for a glass of water.

Two paces later he’s back at his desk frantically undeleting the file. He reads it again and it’s even worse, because it’s _better_ , and that’s extremely uncomfortable. 

Luke toggles away from it and goes back to the history text he was reading. He toggles back to the document before he’s done with the paragraph. He reads the entire document again. It’s not as...prurient as it was on a first read, just his memories adding texture where there isn’t. 

He discovers that there’s a section titled ‘For the beneficiary’s consideration’, and it’s a collection of notes of...implements, and scenarios all working under the rigid conditions set under the contract and proceeding along the observations made from the trial. Chiara’s. And that’s --

He puts the file away with a mental _no_. It’s ridiculous. It hadn't been a good idea to begin with. It wasn’t a _bad idea_ , necessarily, but he tried it. That should be the end of it. 

By force of will, he turns back to the history he was reading and forces himself to ignore it for the rest of the night.

\--

When he’s not over at the rubble of the archives, or at a meeting, he goes to the Imperial gym and slashes at remotes until he can barely lift his arms. Most of what he's up to in his days is sedentary anyway. A strict regime to compensate is almost essential.

Luke remembers doing something along those lines last time, recalls his hand feeling off and disconcerting, promising himself it wouldn't for long. It's not that bad. he's unscathed. And he _is_ unscathed and untouchable while he's at the gym, no thought or reason guiding his sequences. He goes through his days clinging onto that until when he wakes up with a gasp, an image of himself ripping someone’s moon-shaped hat from them and the sinewy tear all that screaming--

A bald faced lie.

Luke stops himself right there and goes through a calming technique. In goes calm. Out goes everything else. 

That is all he needs.

Leia’s brought the nightmares up once or twice, after dinner at her place. She gets a haunted expression when she talks about them that he doesn’t like seeing. It’s an unpleasant reminder that she saw some degree of what he did, lived through some of it, and it sets his teeth on edge. 

She shouldn’t have come back for him.

Luke stands and dresses. It’s near dawn anyway. 

\--

The nightmares take a turn for the worse three weeks in, and being busy stops working. For a bit, Luke stops trying to sleep all together, but that simply leads to waking nightmares, an increase in volume to all the screaming in his head. Eventually, he ends up canceling half of his meetings that week, and Leia tries to have another conversation with him which doesn’t end pleasantly for either of them.

A day later, she sends Han in her stead. 

“You need to talk to her, kid,” he says maybe not five minutes after stepping through his door. At Luke’s expression, he revises that. “You need to talk to someone.”

“It’s the same thing,” is all Luke can respond. Talking never really solved anything. Time did...and maybe a goal. He remembers his laser focus on Han, as a solid aim back then. Heal, save my friend. Now, on most days it’s ephemeral. Busy as he is there’s nothing that tangible at the end of it, won’t be for a while. 

“That’s peace time politics for you,” Han says with a smile when Luke mentions it. 

Maybe so, and Luke goes on. Ups his hours at the gym enough to leave himself in blank exhaustion. He’d pull out of the meetings entirely, but all that will lead is to unpleasant questions. He needs to keep his powerful friends, needs to make more of them. He weaves a story about preparing for an upcoming trip.

And isn't that the answer? A change of scenery, he decides, and cancels everything for a trip to Aleen -- to the ruins of the Jedi chapter house he’d been casually reading about for the past month. 

Aleen is only a day away from Sibisime.

\--

It’s a different apartment this time. 

Chiara opens the door and Luke squelches the impulse to turn around and leave. Once is a curiosity.

Luke thinks of the document and the notes at the end. Someone at the agency must have read it, he thinks with some embarrassment, but Chiara's attention to detail makes it easy to forget. It’s not his name anyway, he tells himself. Only Chiara knows. Why she’s still agreed to this remains a mystery, or not. It could simply come down to curiosity on her side too. If he’s that big of a public figure these days--

Luke shuts the thought down as he walks in. It might be a different apartment, but the layout is the same, a reception area, the kitchen beside it, before him the area opens to a living room, a dining table and a sofa visible beyond it.

Chiara’s wearing another pantsuit a darker gray than the one she’d worn before, a white trim to the blazer. Her uniform for these things? Her hair is in the usual bun. Obviously that’s also part of the image being projected. 

They exchange greetings and she stretches a hand for his lightsaber. 

“Your clothing comes off now,” she says when she comes back.

While not unexpected it’s still uncomfortable to undress. He has the full force of her stare again. 

“Make sure you fold them. Leave them on the table.”

Luke does as she asks. She walks up to the purse she’d left on the sofa and pulls out a pair of cuffs. 

“I’d like you to wear these." Chiara stalks forward

“For how long?” he blurts out.

“You don’t speak unless you’re asked a question. Do I need to send you to the bedroom already?”

Unfortunately, the idea isn’t unappealing, a pull of arousal centering on his cock. Dismay flares through him at the reaction, only intensifying because Chiara doesn’t miss it. When she smiles, it’s both a little mocking, a little predatory, and his face is on flames, stomach in a mortified free fall. 

Had he felt like this, this fast before? He hadn’t, he's sure.

Chiara doesn’t say anything at least, but she approaches closer and puts a hand on his arm. He flinches, but it’s to tug it behind his back, she does the same with his other arm, and he hears the click of the cuffs. After she pushes him forward slightly, her hand comes to rest on the flat of his back then goes up, pushing him forward through the back of his neck, more until he’s leaning forward slightly bent, the backrest of the sofa digging over his hip bone. He shifts a little.

“Don’t move.”

Luke bites his lip. His head is swimming, and he can’t help shuffling his feet a little. Chiara comes closer but without touching, though nudging at his naked heel with her foot, just that rushes down his veins like stim.

“Kriff.” He doesn't realize he’s said out loud until she laughs huskily, the sound running down his spine.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself now,” Chiara says, amused, as she steps away. “I want you to do something for me.”

His head trips all over itself because he kept the no sex condition, he hasn’t changed his mind, and the documents were very specific in asking him for the contact he allows. The lists are long and he doesn’t like dwelling on them. Did he accidentally leave some wiggle room? 

Luke raises his head to see Chiara cross over to the other side of the room. She looks at him squarely. “Come here.”

He obliges, mind working at a frenzied pace. Did he leave something unclear? Something open to interpretation? There’s a fluttery sensation at the base of his stomach, hope that he did.

Chiara gestures to a setting on the floor beside the dinning table, a empty bowl beside a plate with a cluster of a fruit Luke didn’t recognize.

“It’s simple. Pluck them and serve them.” 

He looks at the arrangement. His hands are still cuffed behind his back. 

“Go.” Chiara takes a seat right in front of him on the dinning table and crosses her legs. “I’ll let you give me a show.”

The blush that had been dying down comes back and he distracts himself from it by walking forward.

It flits on his mind that he could do it all with the Force relatively quickly, not that he would, but he could. Luke turns around his back to the plate with the cluster of fruit and crouches down, leaning back slightly when he’s too far until he can touch them. Bit by bit, he plucks them off the stem, picks up a handful and walks over to the bowl to deposit them there. Without being able to see, he doesn’t realize how many are left on the stem and needs to turn to check. It’s slow going, painfully awkward, and Chiara's eyes don't move from him. A few fall from his hands at one point. When that happens, Chiara sends him to that partial squat by the wall on his toes until its uncomfortable, and then has him pick them up.

Finally, he’s done and stands, raises his eyes to Chiara who says, “Bring me the bowl.” 

Luke crouches again to pick the bowl up, with his tied arms, walks over to her, and turns to present it to her.

Chiara takes the bowl from him and puts it on the table. "Sit."

Her hand drops over his head, fingers firm, but gentle as they stroke against his scalp. 

“Good,” she murmurs, and it sets off a warmth in his chest he can’t quantify. He finds himself leaning against her knee.

Her hand pulls away and he raises his head. She’s biting into one of the fruits.

She must have thought he was wondering about them because she explains, “They’re like pallies, but sweeter.” Chiara grabs another and offers it to him. 

Luke stared at her hand for a second. His arms are still tied behind his back, so he can only grab it with his mouth. His eyes lift to her face.

Chiara stays with her hand out, and Luke puts together that he is, by his own informed consent naked with his arms cuffed behind him as some unknown woman’s plaything for the next twenty four hours, and this is the second time that he’s _paid_ for this...

He really should shut his brain off. 

So he leans forward and takes the small fruit from her fingers with his teeth. It _is_ sweeter than a pallie, and he hasn’t had dinner yet, so his stomach makes a growling sound.

Chiara chuckles, and offers him another, and he bites the fruit a little too hard, some of its juice spraying on Chiara’s hand. Wordlessly, she presents her hand open palmed as she eat another from the bowl. The blue of its liquid is garish against her skin. 

And since it’s not about thinking, Luke simply leans forward and licks her palm once, then again until there’s no trace of the spill. Chiara looks over once he’s done, her eyes a seductive dark he looks away from, because it's _affecting_ him again.

She takes another fruit in hand, but closes her fist, half crushing it, and carelessly offers it to him. This time he doesn’t bother to grab the fruit with his teeth, just wraps his lips around Chiara’s fingers. After, he licks her palm clean again, and he’s suddenly so hard he shifts uncomfortably, restless.

Chiara, for her part, has pulled her datapad back to center with her free hand though she falls into a pattern for of grab, crush, offer. His restlessness worsens with every piece he takes from her, every time he licks her palm, but he doesn't know if it's for his tension to go away, for some sort of outlet, and he can't even wrap his mind around feeling like this. He could make it go away.

He bites her instead.

It’s not that hard, but hard enough enough to result in a cry of surprise, that turns to his yelp as her hand sweeps back in a slap, throwing him down. The genuine surprise on Chiara’s face softens her face to someone unfamiliar as she darts from the chair to pull him up, her hand turning his face so she can get a better look.

“You all right?” Even her words sound different in a way he can’t figure out. He nods, it wasn't a hard slap his cheek doesn't even sting that much, he's more confused at the change...and fascinated. “Don’t surprise me like that.”

The restlessness is also gone and he nods. “It’s fine.” 

Chiara reaches back to undo the cuffs. “That’s enough of these.” She puts them away and wipes her hands with a hand wipe from the table. Luke stretches one arm and he’s about to start on the other when she gestures to the sofa. He goes to sit and she slides down next to him, her hand pressing down on his arm, kneading the muscle.

Like last time and she’s very good at it. Part of her trade, but he stops that thought in its tracks as she starts on the other arm. 

His thoughts meander to one of her notes.

_A session can’t be anything but sexual, within the domains given. Whether it can intensify to actual sexual contact is another matter entirely and continues to be fully at the beneficiary’s discretion._

Because her hands are just on his arms fingers loosening the muscle, and he feels with some dread the pull of arousal again.

The door announcer rings thankfully and Chiara gets up to get their dinner.

He shakes his head at himself. What's wrong with him?

She leaves it on the table indicating he’s to serve it and that suits him fine for now. It’s a vegetable plate of some sort. Chiara indicates he’s to take his usual spot beside her chair. She continues along the same pattern as before, feeding him, and he stays guarded to what happened before, even though the same restlessness is inching back into him. It’s not that he wants her to slap him again, but he’s plateauing, losing himself in a feeling of _not going anywhere_. Some part of it is arousal, but not all. He doesn't know _what_ it is, which makes everything worse. Dizzily, he thinks he’ll take anything, just to cast loose this tension. So he licks her fingers clean, and dares to nip at her thumb.

Chiara moves back, scraping her chair on the floor. 

“The room,” she barks. “On the bedpost.”

He’s inordinately glad it’s that and not a stress position, that wouldn’t be enough. In the bedroom he pauses to notice it's another four post bed. By design, obviously.

She walks in, but doesn't get her bag. Instead, she leaves him to wait while she goes to the ‘fresher. He hears the tap, and then she goes to the same side of the bed and fishes out the duffel bag.

Chiara pulls out the paddle. “No underwear this time?” She slinks forward.

This was agreed upon as per the last correspondence, but hearing it from her mouth makes him look towards his hands on the post, face flaming. Like before she runs the flat of it over one side of his ass. He squirms a little as it passes over his naked skin, and she stops. 

Luke thinks it’s to prompt him, but instead she places the paddle by the doorway as she leaves the room. The cuffs are in her hand when she comes back and goes back to her bag. He doesn’t recognize the device she gets. It looks like a cuff too, a ring, larger. It’s open and she clicks it shut around the bedpost.

“Wrists.”

He offers them and she slides the cuffs on but doesn’t close them the full way. She brings them to the ring and closes them there. His wrist are up eye level now. 

Over his shoulder he sees her go for the paddle again. 

In the documents, he’d ended up surprised at how short it all had been. Chiara had set the timing “conservatively.” As she developed familiarity, she'd written, she’d increase both intensity and duration, if requested, but at her judgement. Even reading that alone, his pulse had jumped. It leaps now as she runs he edge of the paddle down his spine, and he shivers. The edge of it trails up his side next, grazing against his ribs, and he's squirming enough to pull on the restraints. He’s been some form of hard throughout most of the afternoon and evening, but now the anticipation is like a solid weight at the base of his stomach. Right now there’s nothing but the cool of the wood against his skin and the expectation of a strike, of the blankness that follows.

“You’re all wound up, aren’t you?” Chiara murmurs and the flush in his face deepens. 

The first one doesn’t surprise him as much as it did the first time, so he doesn’t cry out so much as grunt as the impact sends him forward. Again, and harder exponentially more, the sensation going past the surface later of his skin, not much sting anymore, again, and again. Chiara stops and he catches his breath. The throb of a bruise remains, the pain like a spreading stain along the canvas of his head, blotting out everything else.

She starts on the other side before it can fully wane. Every so often she alternates hitting the side already sore, it is longer, because it starts _hurting_ , really hurting, making him arch away and cry out, making his breaths ragged. Somewhere in there he realizes she’s doing it harder. She stops and he breathes for a while. The pause is for long enough that he notices.

“Yes, no, stop,” she prompts.

“Yes.” 

Chiara starts again. It’s not as painful as before though he feels it. And then without warning she lets loose a teeth-rattling strike, enough that he cries out, jerks his wrists against the cuffs. He breathes shallowly through the next, still reeling from that until the next hard blow draws out a groan. 

She stops and before she can prompt, he loosens a “yes,” between his teeth. 

It’s all hard blows next. Luke’s not sure how long it goes, and it’s not that it hurts, or it does, but not the same way. He leans more against the post, registering that standing is beginning to be a problem. The thought has just sluggishly cohered when Chiara is by his wrists, the click's sound loud, and he blinks slowly at her. 

Chiara pulls him forward to climb up on the bed. “That’s enough. Come lie down.”

He's...pleasantly unmoored, and curls on his side. Off in the distance he registers soreness, a sundry of aches, but it’s too far. Her hand is in his hair. 

“You did well,” she murmurs, fingers stroking along his scalp. 

A protest breaks from him, even as that touch lights up into an uncontrollable impulse to press his cheek against her outer thigh.

She stays silent for a few beats, but her hand doesn’t stop. “And how do you feel, Luke?”

He reflects with his limited coherence that he loves the way she says his name. She doesn’t say it enough. Maybe he should note it next time as a preference.

“Luke,” she calls. “How do you feel?”

He would raise his head to look at her, see her lips as they form the word -- she has beautiful lips, he would like to kiss her once, too -- but can’t summon the will. 

“Empty,” he sighs out.

\--

The rest of the twenty four hours are a bit of a blur. At some point, he falls asleep to wake up late the next morning in Chiara’s bed, wrapped up in her sheets. She’d left a bottle of bacta salve on the bedside table. Her absence would be unpleasant -- he’s only had a couple of one night stands, that’s been enough to know it’s not for him -- but he heard her making noise in the kitchen. Somehow this is different. Should feel worse but...doesn't. Not right now.

Luke grabs the bottle. From all the correspondence he knows this would be commonly included in Chiara’s duties, but he’d filed it under the touch restrictions. He’d modified the initial contract though, eased a bit of what he'd previously disallowed to what he'd understood to be standard. Part of it.

There's a reason why things are standard, he finds himself thinking. The thought of her touching him no longer feels that uncomfortable. She does it every time she's put him in a stress position. He squeezes lotion onto his hand and rubbing it up the back of his thigh and up to his ass, inflamed skin protesting sharply. Last time, very little marks had been left the next day, that...wouldn't not the case this time, he thought, glancing at the swath of red. It's not that bad though.

She greets him with a “How do you feel?” from the table once he's back at the living room. It doesn't put him off because it’s exceedingly businesslike, because it's over pain she’d administered that he paid for. All of it set in stone. No gray areas. 

Again the thought filters in, this what people pay for.

“Okay,” he replies. 

“Turn around.”

He does so, and after a moment where she’s examining her handiwork, she calls, “Over here.”

Chiara gestures to the spot next to her chair on the floor. Her hand drops on his head, weaves into his hair, when he drops, sitting on his side. He leans against her leg unthinkingly.

“Being tired's part of it.”

He hmms a response. 

“Adrenaline and endorphins are adrenaline and endorphins even in a controlled environment.”

Chiara's hand withdraws to pick up a pastry. She offers it to him, but when Luke reaches for it, she pulls her hand back. He looks up. Oh.

With an inward shrug he leans forward and lets her feed it to him. 

It’s comfortable, even sore as he is. And he _is_ sore. It’s not just his ass, it’s his shoulder and his back too, probably from tensing too much last night, but his head is quiet. And even when he was anxious last night it'd been different, he'd been too focused on her to think of anything else.

He looks up at Chiara and idly wonders who she is again, apart from what she does. 

The agency highlights that their proctors are selected and evaluated for their enthusiasm and suitability in their domain...

He’s not supposed to ask her anything about her background. 

“You want to say something," she says, wry. "It’s written all over you.”

Luke closes his eyes. “It's...I don’t want to be in breach of contract.” 

Her eyebrows go up. “You’re already in breach of contract, Luke.”

He rounds his shoulders. He should be grateful she hadn’t thrown him out when she found out who he was. 

“Yes?”

“Nothing," he raises his head, "just thinking of the introduction the agency gives. The selection of proctors based on their enthusiasm and suitability. I was wondering if you -- if you...liked what you do.” He winces and looks away.

“The agency solicits with too much specificity to be coercive,” she finally says. 

He forces himself to meet her eyes. “Depends on what you mean by coercive.”

To his surprise, she laughs. “This isn’t a spice lord’s den. The agency matches, but I’m free to turn a beneficiary down at any point. I'm granted the opportunity to pick as much as the beneficiary is. Yes, I like what I do.” She tilts her head. "I'm very good at it."

Her eye passes over him as if she’s waiting for him to ask something else. Luke has questions, but he’s also aware he’s half sitting beside her on the floor, still naked. She’d said there was never to be any renegotiating during, only after. 

Would she agree then, he thinks distantly, if he dispenses with the no sex condition? She’s seemed attracted to him, he thinks, but that could be a performance too.

Chiara finishes off her breakfast and tells him, “Finish here,” moves off, taking her datapad with her.

Luke shakes himself. What is he thinking? Just going through this is pushing it, he can’t seriously be considering more. At one point before the mess at Mindor his sister had just suggested he date. He should try that instead. It’s normal.

After he cleans up everything he approaches where she sits on the sofa, she pats the spot beside her. “You can lie down here.”

Luke climbs on, half her gesture turned out to signal her lap, so he shifts to lie down, puts his head there. Her hand again drops to his head, and none of this should be that lulling. It should feel patronizing and fake...but all those _shoulds_ don’t work. For once the quiet in his head is stronger. Everything is simple here. 

Luke stops thinking for a while.

Two sessions later, he eliminates the no sex condition.


	3. Pious Fraud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The removal of the restriction on sexual contact yields various additional avenues for your consideration. Ms. Lorn has appended her list of acceptable sexual activities in document A1765. We kindly request your perusal. From here you have the option of suggesting any activities which may be of interest, but are not listed in the document. Upon her perusal, Ms. Lorn will inform of her acceptance, and any conditions or addendums, or her decline. Should it be the latter, she will propose an alternative. We are confident that a satisfactory agreement can be reached._

“But why should we want the Jedi back?” Peec Forre, the Otolan journalist, asks from his interviewer’s chair. “Pardon the brusqueness, but there _are_ legitimate concerns --criticisms that the Old Order was ineffective and negligent at best.”

Luke smiles affably like he's been coached. “And I understand that, but we should also be vigilant about the image created by the Empire’s propaganda machine painting Jedi as warmongering elitists. It almost succeeded in making everyone forget Jedi as mediators and peacekeepers.”

“That is the role you see yourself taking in the government?” Forre leans forward.

“More or less -- by request of interested parties -- that is one of my roles, yes.”

“One of them?”

“I'm also involved in...artifact recovery, in finding and reconstructing all that the Empire tried to destroy...you might say that's my primary role.”

“Being a representative as well, I imagine." Forre gestures to the holocam as Luke nods. "A communicator." Forre turns back to Luke. "Those are a lot roles for such a person and a...young person too, if you don't mind my saying. You are only twenty-five standard years, is that correct? For a human, especially, that is quite young.”

Luke feels his smile go a bit tight. When they mention your age _deflect deflect deflect!_ he'd been told. 

“Yes, but that gets us back to the need for Jedi.” Luke folds his hands in his lap and keeps his gaze on Forre, he always has the temptation to look at the holocam at this point in interviews. He's just managing to get it right.

“It _is_ too much for one person alone. In terms of mediation alone, the requests are beyond my availability. And while I do have the help and counsel from academics and friends of Jedi, it’s not the same as sharing the obligation to reconstruct all that was destroyed, the obligation, as you mentioned, to communicate with the public about who Jedi are and their service.”

“Certainly, and much has been speculated about your retiring from the public eye to train another Jedi. Should the public be prepared to lose you so soon?”

“Nothing of the sort." Luke gives a shake of his head. "Not yet. It’s not something I take lightly, and I have much more research to complete before I feel adequate to the task of taking an apprentice. What I mean to stress here is my request for the public to keep an open mind about Jedi, to ask questions if they need to using forums such as this, because the restoration of Jedi is not up to me alone. Jedi have always served the people. The people have to want their service.”

“Well, we're happy to act as an intermediary,” Forre says, “there’s a lot of misinformation in these changing times.” He turns to the camera. “Which is why NHS always tries to get the news from the bantha’s mouth, striving for the most complete accurate coverage. We’ll be back after our commercial break to wrap things up.”

Luke's Mon Cal assistant, Allaj Circe, sent over from his sister’s office, waits for him with his cloak in her webbed hand after he’s done taking his leave from Forre, producers, and anyone else he needs to make nice with on set. 

She’s brisk and no-nonsense, which Luke appreciates, holding out the cloak. In her other hand she has her usual datapad which she's busy scrolling through. “You have a meeting with Senators Trin and Ula.”

He frowns as they walk out to the building's landing bay through the back entrance and slips the cloak on. “That’s today?”

“They rescheduled because Senator Trin just got in this morning. You have the Outer Rim Affairs Committee meeting after that, it's the first of the term, mostly a meet and greet. I took the liberty of moving up your meeting with Jivan Kundra. He made it dinner.”

Luke thinks back trying to place the name. “Coruscant Museum?”

Coruscant Museum is trying to put up a Jedi Order Exhibit, he recalls. It’s a good opportunity too, but he hasn’t had dinner as _dinner_ in near a week, it’s always been some sort of meeting or another. 

Allaj nods and steers him off to another side. "The president of CM, yes. And I called for an air taxi," she continues. "You'll never make it with your skimmer, your pad's too far from Senator Ula's office."

Luke rubs at the bridge of his nose and tamps down on a groan. Allaj is right, but he hates taking air taxis.

"I'll drive it to the Senate Building," she continues. "Reservations are at Leela, which is close by. You can pick it up after the dinner."

Luke nods at her and opens the door. "Thanks. Wait!" He calls after her. "You're not coming?" From inside the driver grumbles something rude.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Allaj replies. "I need to finish filing your residency flimsiwork."

He almost rolls his eyes. Coruscanti bureaucracy is something else and he doesn't even deal with all of it. Probably their Imperial roots. "I thought that was done."

"The office wants all the trips away from Coruscant explained and documented."

Luke does groan then.

"I'm near done. I'll just duck into a tapcafe and check that all is in order and send it in. But you'd better go. I'll see you at Ula's office."

Luke nods, thanks her again, and gets in the taxi. As it pulls away from the Columns, his comm sounds. He glances at it -- it's a Senate district code he doesn't recognize, and lets himself ignore it for the moment. The comm goes silent, thankfully. He leans back his head and closes his eyes.

That feeling of falseness should have faded by now. He'd resigned his commission months ago, but sometimes it's _worse_.

His comm begins to sound again, he sighs and goes to open the line.

\--

Luke gets in late enough to explain why he prefers to slot his workouts early in the morning. Kundra, himself a Rodian, brought in Odile Steffen, the museum’s financial director with him to dinner to go over writing a grant for it exhibit. Luke had been acquainted with Odile already, he’d met her at some function or another, maybe some charity work. It all blurs together these days despite his best intentions.

Odile is human and pleasant, and likes him well enough that at some point he starts hearing Leia in his head. 

_It would be good for you, Luke. You don't have to settle down with anyone, just be friendly. All of this public face can eat at a person_.

Every time she'd brought it up, his reply had been the same. He had her and Han and Chewie, anyone else was simply too much trouble to deal with at this point. He thinks that now as he greets artoo, hangs his cloak, and gets rid of his outer tunic.

The nightmares are less frequent, at least. In a couple of months he won’t have them at all. Until then it's the same as always, one commitment after another, one pleasant smile after another, all leading up to some future whose shape he can't visualize. It's a lot like being shackled down to some invisible weight. 

Pass on what you have learned, he'd been told. Remarkably unspecific. The thought of teaching _anyone_ makes his stomach churn. He wouldn't even know where to begin. He can't even imagine it the way his last encounters with Force sensitives has gone.

Every dead body in the fields could have been an apprentice.

He shakes the thought and goes to wash his face.

Later on, he'll sit and continue reading up about Ruusan's Valley of the Jedi, and there’ll be the document in an encrypted folder of his datapad, beckoning.

\--

It’s the same routine at yet another apartment. 

Luke walks in trying to keep the nervousness check. The document chronicling last time was good reading. If he hadn’t already been leaning to take off the no sex condition, maybe that would have done it. It’s not that he ends frustrated, the aftermath of whatever Chiara puts him through, is the opposite of that. It leaves him feeling like his limbs are liquid, like he needs nothing else. It's just that before he gets there, the frisson of anticipation has taken a more erotic cast, and back home, document on his screen, he'd been unable to stop wondering...

What they do already crosses the line anyway.

Steeling himself he'd approached the agency to remove the condition. While he deals with Chiara directly about the details of a session, this kind of change, she'd written to him, has to go through the agency, which will assume an intermediary role to begin renegotiations. He doesn't understand the rationale for any of it, and it's an unpleasant reminder of the transactional nature of it all. He almost changes his mind. 

Chiara opens the door and she’s wearing a skirt this time, it’s snug and dark, the blouse is normal except her blazer is elsewhere. He wordlessly turns over the lightsaber after she closes the door, sees her turn and walk again to place it wherever she does. He doesn’t care about where she puts the lightsaber at the moment, not as much as he does about the shape of her hips, her ass. He catches himself, but then that _is_ now part of the contract, and he's very glad he hadn't changed his mind.

She’s back and snaps her fingers, staring at him as he takes off his clothes, a knot of expectation and nervousness in his gut now tightens amid proliferating questions. Will she kiss him or ask him to kiss her? He’s assuming she’ll take her pleasure first, and that's appealing, among other reasons, for learning how she looks, how she sounds when she comes.

It still puts him off a little to be naked like this, but it’s a keener kind of anticipation. She'd made suggestions, and those swim in his head, getting him hard, and what’s getting exasperating is that she hasn’t even touched him yet. With every meeting, it feels like his thinking mind scatters quicker and quicker.

Chiara looks squarely at his hard on. 

“That’s fast,” she says, which makes him tamp on a shuffle of his feet, except she nears, her hand going right down to his cock, wrapping around it as she murmurs, “Good boy. Let’s do something about that.”

An extremely undignified sound breaks from the back of his throat. She pulls away, gesturing for him to go ahead. He goes, his head already dulled which is maybe why he’s unprepared for her to shove him to the side. There’s pain at his scalp making him cry out in surprise as she pulls him a full foot by the hair, before shoving him bodily against the synth leather backrest of the nearest living room chair in front of her.

The heel of her foot nudges his naked one, like last time except its her leg flush between his. Thin fabric -- her stockings-- graze along his calves and thigh --

Sting at his ass -- a slap, a _spank_ , he pieces belatedly -- makes the thought scatter. Another strike sends him arching forward, fabric of the chair uncomfortable friction that pulls a grunt from him. 

Did she -- is she --

Another strike. Then her hand rubs, sure and bold, along the sensitized skin of his ass, the contact shockingly intimate, drawing out a moan. Another hit falls before he can think more. Another. And another. His mind _can't_ catch up, as she strikes, tingling turning into pressure, wiping out discomfort, shame, _everything_ , over the imperative of friction at his cock. Another strike. His hips work reflexively against resistance, and if it's too rough, it's better for it it, and he moans on at the next strike. Another.

Respite. He breathes shakily as her hand rubs at his stinging skin again. She shifts, sliding her leg against his, the heat of her skin through the soft fabric makes him feel as if he's underwater.

“Touch me,” he gasps, and yelps when she pinches his ass, hard. 

“Didn't say you could talk.” She hisses, follows it up with a slap, and another. Everything falls away except sting and harsh friction with the jerk of his hips.

By then he’s so far gone that when she says, “You’re going to make a mess, aren’t you?” scratching her nails down his back, he only moans, desperate, and with the next strike he's shuddering. It's good for too short before overstimulation has him making a high garbled sound, and shifting his hips away.

Chiara’s hand is on his hair as he pants blearily.

He blinks and comes back to himself. 

What the kriff.

“Good boy.” She sounds more pleased than he’s heard her yet, just a little smug, and eases away from him.

A weak laugh escapes him. 

“There’s cleaning supplies under the sink,” she calls nonchalantly walking off to the kitchen.

\--

Luke cleans himself up, then goes to take care of the chair, trying not to dwell in the embarrassment. The wipe down is simple with that kind of fabric, a fact best not to give a lot of thought to either. 

Instead, he thinks that he'd expected her to drag the whole thing out longer. It occurs to him if Chiara’s working from a treat-and-stick frame, he’s due for a lot of stick next.

He should probably feel more dismayed.

Chiara is sitting on the sofa on her datapad when he’s done. He moves to sit by her on the floor. She shifts, crossing her legs, which of course draws his eyes. It’s clear as day, the set up, trading off the neutral suits for this skirt, which is close to conservative length, all things considered. Clothing's not covered in the documents, though he's always been encouraged to express preferences, but these kinds of details had seemed trivial. While he'd reversed himself, he's still not paying for a body. What just happened is illustrative; he'd just given Chiara another implement to add to her toolbox. Just that.

Regardless, the new clothing stands out to him. Even sitting down the skirt's ridden only maybe three inches past her knee. That doesn’t seem to matter a whole lot to his brain; it's busy trailing along the shape of her legs, cataloguing the shimmer of her translucent stockings, calling back the way they’d felt against his thigh, and -- oh -- he’s getting hard again. 

Luke turns his thoughts away, except he doesn’t want to think of anything else, not while he’s here; it’s a conundrum. Luckily, the solution presents itself almost instantly.

“You read a lot?” he asks her. Would that qualify as background? he wonders belatedly. Too personal? He's tried hard to keep to the line. It's not been that difficult. They don't talk much during the alloted time, a draw in itself.

Chiara answers without looking up. "I didn't say you could talk.”

He bites down on his lip. Right. He forgot. That's twice. He should have been sent to the wall already.

"Fine," she concedes. Maybe she's feeling benevolent. "Go on."

“What do you read?” He looks up at her. She doesn’t seem the type to like holonovels. 

This time she does look up. “Market reports.”

This is all staged, he reminds himself. This might be part of it. She’s got the executive look down pat. She might be someone entirely different elsewhere.

Chiara laughs at his expression. “Not entertaining enough for you?”

“None of that stuff makes sense to me.”

“Well, some of us need to have retirement plans. I like this,” she says. “But I won’t do it forever.”

It’s an unpleasant reminder that he is, after all, paying her, and paying her a borderline exorbitant amount. Triple than last time because not only did he eliminate the no sex condition, he took up the agency’s offer to make her services in this area exclusive. So while she might have other clients she slaps around for pay, he’s guaranteed she’s not doing what she just did to him with them. At least not right now, during paid time--

He yanks his thoughts away. 

Chiara’s expression changes incrementally and she shifts. “I don’t like this sofa. It’s uncomfortable.” 

She puts the datapad beside her and stands, her smirk obvious. As she points from where he is to the sofa, indicating he’s to sit there. He does so, a gnarled shivery feeling coming over. He’s pretty sure where this is all going.

Right to the stick. 

So he more or less expects it when she arranges herself on his lap with a cautionary, “you don’t get to touch,” which in no way minimizes the effect of having her this close. She shifts, skirt clad ass brushing against his cock and he sucks in a breath.

But that’s not all. He’s close enough to see the fine hairs on her nape -- the mental image of dragging his fingers up and undoing her immaculately coiffed hair _vivid_ \-- this time a small exasperated noise does escape him when he catches himself. 

Chiara wriggles a bit, her hand falling to stroke along his outer thigh and he clenches his jaw. She smells like something slightly floral, some subtle perfume, expensive, a voice whispers, too expensive for you, but that’s not true anymore, which is at once both _wrong_ , horrible, and incredibly, infuriatingly arousing. 

So he looks at the shell of her ear. She’s wearing earrings, a stud of something sparkly, which isn’t all that interesting save for the fact that he wonders if kissing under it, under her ear, would get a reaction. It had tended to from other partners -- even if his experience has been admittedly nonexistent these last years -- and if so, from _her_ , what sort of reaction? 

She shifts again, and he sucks in another breath. This is going nowhere fast and he’s half doing it to himself.

Chiara has her datapad up, and she wasn’t lying. It’s the _Sullust Market Report_ , which gives him the second conundrum of either continuing to frustrate himself to aggravation, or attempting to read over her shoulder and passing out from pure boredom.

Chiara wriggles her hips a little. Her hand leaves his outer thigh goes to his other leg under hers. She idly strokes up and down his thigh and it seems she’s saved him from choosing. It’s definitely the stick. All the way.

“Anything in particular you'd like?" she asks.

“Um,” is his eloquent reply, because as she strokes his thigh, she wriggles back just a bit more...

She pulls back her hand from his thigh, toggles through several windows and lifts her datapad. She’s showing him a list of menus, but the lazy roll of her hips is as is distracting, as it is aimless, and it’s all he can do not to grab her hips and get some _focus_ into the movement.

“I didn’t get the sense you were too picky." 

“No...”

Her hips start to get just a bit rhythmic in their roll. “Something light maybe.”

“Mm-hm.” It’s too slight, but _good_.

“Corellian’s too greasy. I’m tired of Ithorian. We did Chandrilan last time. What’d you think?”

“Good,” his voice comes out a bit raspy, and he clears his throat. “It was good.” In truth he doesn’t remember the food at all. Never does.

“Okay.” She stops moving and he stifled a disappointed sigh when he hears her move further away. 

Chiara ambles over to her bag, passing a frank look to him as she does. He would feel more embarrassed about his raging hard on but given that she’s been rubbing herself on it to some degree or another for the past half an hour, he just gives her a sheepish shrug. 

A grin threatens to break over her face before she schools it to her mask of aloofness. He sees _that_ and that’s eye catching in a different way. 

Chiara grabs her comm and clicks in the code and sits next to him as she goes to put in the order. It’s always been him on the floor and he’s about to go and take his spot out of habit, when her hand reaches to his cock.

“What are your specials?” she asks through the comm.

He looks at her unable to hide the disbelieving outrage, which she steadfastedly ignores, settling more comfortably on the sofa.

“But would that come with hij? No hij?” Her hand is not moving, just there, warm around his cock. Given the tenor of this whole encounter, he shelves the indignance, and shifts, hoping it’ll either ease the pressure directly or persuade her to ease up the stick. 

“Really. Fine,” she tightens her hand past comfortable, a hairsbreadth from painful, and the meaning is crystal. Persuasion’s not going to work. Moving in general, he extrapolates, is probably not the best idea. Not really the kind of pain he favors, which is in itself a weird thought; he would have never imagined favoring pain at all.

“So go ahead and add it.” 

The results of her check are that he’s faded a bit, which makes things more comfortable, if unsatisfying. 

“One order, please.” 

Her hand moves, but it’s aimless like her hips had been. Chiara just touches him leisurely, as if it’s about getting to know the shape and feel of his cock -- and he’s back again. Kriff.

“And what was the other thing you mentioned? Jurika? No, durika?” 

Comm conversation or no, her hand is very _interested_ in mapping him, from the way her thumb passes from base to tip, to the trail of her forefinger and middle finger down his shaft, the way she shifts her hand underneath, cupping his cock, dropping down to pass gently over his sac. Circumspect.

“Yeah, that -- a grain? You recommend it?” 

Part of him wants to laugh at the heights of ridiculousness this evening is reaching, the part that isn’t at rapt attention, drawn to hope it’s not all stick, because her hand is back around his cock, and he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself, but he reads _purpose_ in the way it wraps around, in how tight it is. He grits his teeth at the impulse to thrust into it. His cock is way ahead of him, already wet.

“On second thought, no.” 

She gives an exploratory stroke and he bites his lip, at the electric jolt that streaks up his spine. There’s a second stroke, a third, and he clenches his hands, hoping if he stays still things will end how he wants. Her next strokes increase in tempo, his breathing grows harsh, every muscle pulling tight. Just don’t move.

“Two. Two specials. One order. Of hij.”

He can’t help his hips twitching a little, immediately corrects -- did she notice? But her rhythm continues, and he can see the end from how fast she’s going, can see his release like a swiftly approaching destination on the nav. He just has to stay _still_.

“That’s. It. Correct. Mh-hm.” 

She pulls off her hand from him to close the line.

An embarrassing low sound breaks from him before he realizes what’s happening. Dismay dawns on him next, along with the punch of frustration, swirling into a refrain of _why is he doing this_.

Chiara stands. “You can take care of it in the ‘fresher if you like,” she says over her shoulder, going to the bedroom.

He gives her a pointed look, and can’t resist retorting to her back. “I’ll live.”

Her head slowly turns in his direction, eyes narrowing. For a second he thinks she’ll turn back, climb onto his lap, and try to prove him wrong. 

It’s not a _terrible_ idea from where he’s sitting, but she's probably going to send him to the wall.

Instead, she snaps her fingers. “Down,” she says pointing to the floor. “And stay there.”

\--

Not long later, he heard scuffing from the bedroom, when it stops, Chiara calls him over.

She’s sitting on the bed and his eyes follow her legs, crossed primly. 

Chiara spreads her palm and moves it to the side in an ironic flourish. There’s a mass of weapons on a blanket on the floor -- not weapons, Luke revises, _implements_ they call it. He recognizes a couple and feels the shimmer of anticipation.

She must have read it because she laughs and says, “Don’t get excited. I’m not meaning to use any of these right now, but seeing as to how we’re getting to know each other better, it’s a good idea for you to see them in the flesh, so to speak.” She pauses. “These are all the implements that you gave a positive check to.”

Luke sees that now, although his process of elimination was slated to anything sharp and anything whose name he couldn’t recognize. In the documents Chiara wrote her reasoning for choosing the paddle, something about versatility and a smaller intimidation factor. He hadn’t thought much of that, but now staring at the mass of implements all at once, sure, it can be a little...shocking.

He was pretty sure that on the far corner is a smaller model of a stun baton. He’d okayed a stun baton?

“And sometimes, it’s a good idea to put pictures to names,” Chiara continues. “As you know revisions can happen at any point after, and there’s always the option to stop. Always.”

He reaches over to the stun baton and is stopped by a sharp warning sound from Chiara. Luke glances back at her. 

She raises her chin. “Not for your hands.”

Luke turns back to the implements. There’s several floggers; he recognizes one with thick tails from the last couple of times. A couple with narrower ones, he doesn't, neither does he recognize several batons made of some kind of finished and unfinished wood of various degrees of thickness. A wrapped thin belt lies beside one of them, a whip beside that, the paddle she'd used before, a couple that look flimsy, and several pairs of cuffs. There's other stuff he can’t place -- gags? Links?

“But actually, now that you’ve gotten acquainted, I’d like you to put these away for me.” Chiara gestures to the duffel bag beside the mass of implements and smiles. She stands and goes past him to bend over to pick up something in a way that’s blatant, but effective, nonetheless, enough that he turns his head a little for a better view.

When she straightens and crosses back to him, she’s holding the cuffs in her hands. She walks behind him, trailing a fingertip from his bicep down to to his wrist before pulling his arm back. She does the same with the other. Ah. 

Chiara clicks the cuffs shut and circles back in front of him. He’s about to turn around and crouch to begin the awkward process of grabbing the nearest object with his hands behind his back when her hand on his bicep stops him. She touches her index finger to his lips, dragging it down the middle of his bottom lip. 

“You should get used to using your mouth.”

That hits the base of his stomach with a thud that makes his cock twitch. 

He stares as she goes to sit behind him on the foot of the bed, again crossing her legs. 

“Let’s see if you can get this done before the food gets here. Maybe if you do, you can get a surprise.”

He drops to get the first implements. It’s one of the floggers, heavy but not enough that he can’t pick it up with his teeth, and crawls to the duffle bag to get it inside. He moves on to the belt, then the rest of the floggers, and then the batons. Little by little, he’s making progress. 

Behind him Chiara says, “I’m impressed. You’re not done until the bag’s closed though.”

Finally, he gets gets the whip inside and starts the annoying process of bringing the ends up, leaning forward to grab the zipper between his teeth.

“What would you prefer my mouth, my cunt, or my ass?”

Luke loses his place getting the zipper. He goes for it again and the announcer rings. 

She tsks. “And here I was about to show you what I like.”

Which is disappointing, he thinks watching her leave the room, but again, _stick_.

Dinner follows along those lines. She has him sit next to her and every so often she drops her hand down to his thigh to stroke there, at one point she skims it over his midriff. 

She starts the true torture once she’s done with her plate, curling her hand again around his cock with the same inquisitive aimlessness as when she’d started, between that and the filthy repetition of _my mouth, my cunt, or my ass? Show you what I like_ in his head, he’s shifting in the chair. Chiara loosens her hand ensuring any resistance is slight.

She leans forward to whisper. “How bad is it?”

Even with her hand on his cock, he’d be an idiot to make a play for sympathy so he takes the opening to ask, “What _do_ you like?”

She scowls. “I don’t like questions as answers to questions.”

He pouts at her, opts for a goad. “Not as bad as it could be.”

“Really,” Chiara licks her lips, “And how bad is that?”

He raises his eyebrows at her. 

Luke can’t decide whether it’s annoyance or amusement that crosses her face. It’s gratifying to watch, and regardless of the hours of frustration, he might like this session the best. She slides onto his lap again, sitting on her side, keeps her hand light on his cock as she mouths by his neck, as she nips at his earlobe. Maybe he underestimated her. His hands move to her waist unthinkingly, and she pulls back and gives a shake of her head.

“Not for your hands.”

He leans forward slightly. “My mouth then.”

She moves off his lap and raises her chin. “I didn’t say you could talk. To the wall.”

That’s quite possibly the most disappointing turn of events tonight, but he supposes he'd been heading that direction all evening. She leaves him there while she showers and gets ready for bed. 

His calves are aching by the time she calls him up. She’s shed the long sleep tunic and pants in favor of an underwear and tank set, seems like legs are the theme. He goes to the 'fresher and when he comes out unrolls the mattress.

Chiara slinks off the bed to the foot of the mattress as he sits, works the muscle by his calf, then the other leg and he’s about to note how good she is at this but stops himself. She hasn’t asked him to speak.

But she just stands, and his eyes are pulled back up her legs to that perfect ass of hers. She knows he's looking from the way her gaze finds his. And it’s never happened to him that he feel hot and incredibly turned on just from a woman looking at him. It’s discomfiting, even knowing that it's an intricately executed operation, bounded to the here and now, even knowing that he need only to call on his normal focus to make it go away.

But he doesn't want to, and neither does he want this to stop.

Chiara smiles, somehow coy and says, “It's good you renegotiated the contract. Good night.” 

He hears her slide into the bed, and lets himself drop back on the mattress as she turns off the light.

_The beneficiary gets what they want_ , the agency had announced in one of the earlier messages. _How they get it is at our proctors’ discretion._

\--

Luke wakes up to warm hands along his arm sliding to his chest, the graze of skin, a bare leg between his.

It may have been a couple of years, but he hasn't forgotten what it feels like to have someone in his bed.

 _Chiara_ , his sleepy mind provides, and he blinks coming to full wakefulness, he feels her against his back and she -- she’s naked? 

Luke hasn’t gotten beyond the surprise when she hooks a leg over his hip and shifts to straddle his waist.

He raises his eyes for a flash of skin the swell of her breasts, a peaked nipple, but she’s dropped fabric over his eyes.

“Blindfold.” A brief pause. Her hands at his temples about to bind it. “Ye--”

“Yes,” he rasps before she can finish the prompt, feeling for her, he’s certainly _on_ to be woken up for sex, blindfold or no blindfold. He lifts his head and she finishes tying it as his hands grope along the flare of her hip.

“Hands here,” she orders, taking his hands and putting them on her thighs. 

Chiara leans forward, and he feels the warmth of her breath misting along his shoulder, his skin almost prickling from it. He moans even before he feels her lips, and her mouth just makes him jerk. Her weight shifts, her hand is on his cock and he moans, his thumb trailing up her thigh, he feels her move in the play of the muscle. 

And then she sinks down on his cock.

His next moan is half cried out as his hip buck, but she’s slid up, so that it’s only the tip inside her. How is she already wet enough for this? She must have --

“Ease up or I’m leaving.” 

He draws a heavy, shuddering breath, and forces his muscles to relax. He doesn't trust his hands on her legs at all and pulls them off to bunch the sheets below them.

“Very good,” she murmurs, sliding down his length, agonizingly slow, making him gasp. “You feel good too, Luke.”

He clenches his teeth, shifting his legs to avoid thrusting up.

“And you like that.” Her voice is breathy. “Knowing how good you are for me.”

Who, he manages to think with his last couple of active brain cells, wouldn’t?

Her hips move in tight circles. “Or is it your name you like hearing like this, Luke?” Her motions slip into a tighter roll, maddening because she’s slick heat around him, but the friction is not quite there. It'd only take a little more...

“Luke,” she moans as if she’s testing it out.

Kriff. His hips push up slightly despite his efforts.

“Do that again.” Her voice is still soft, but that cadence is threatening. So is the fact that she stops moving. “And I’m sending you to the wall.”

He draws in another breath, and she starts moving again, her own breathing going fast, and while it’s still not going to be enough for him...but it might be for her. That groan sounds like its been pushed out between her teeth, conjures the image of her arching up astride him. She’s clenching rhythmically, her hips rolling tighter.

He murmurs a curse and hears her laugh softly.

“Don’t move,” she says with a slight moan. “I’m gonna come.”

And he bunches his hands tighter in the sheets, because she’s using him like he’s her very own sex toy, and kriff if that’s not the hottest thing he's experienced. All she’d need to do is lift her hips a couple of times, but she’s still circling, grinding up against his pelvic bone. If he’d been just a little more worked up before this maybe he wouldn’t even need --

Her moan is ragged and rough, the muscles of her legs lock up into a shudder, inner walls tight. His hips twitch. Just that minuscule motion is so good, but so incomplete it pulls a whimper.

Chiara pants above him. “Good boy.”

He thrusts up helplessly, but she’s...lifting herself off.

Oh. Oh no. Oh no.

“What?” he blurts out, his hands raising to her hips. “No-no-no.”

“Off.” He complies with several curses as Chiara shifts up, straddling his waist.

“Not as bad as it could be?” Her voice is smug.

It’s the kriffing stick. Luke curses again. 

“I told you. I don’t like smart retorts.” She slides off him. “You can go take care of it in the 'fresher.”

He could, it’s just a shame when she’s here. Now that the mindless urgency has peeled off to a deep ache, he can put it out of his mind. 

“That’s okay,” he croaks. But maybe good behavior will change her mind. “No smart retorts. Got it.”

Chiara gives a chuckle that sounds promising, but slides herself away. “You should still clean up. You can take the blindfold off.” 

Luke does so, finding that she has her tunic shirt back on now. Her hair is still up, but a little messier, strands of it loose. Her cheeks are flushed and her skin has a slight shine of sweat. She turns around to go to the 'fresher.

He turns to the side in his mattress, just because he can ignore the frustration doesn't make it comfortable or pleasant. He really hopes she'll feel more generous before the twenty-four hours are up, but given the way she’d served it up within his first ten minutes of being here, he’s not sure and buries his head into the pillow, imagining numbers in his head a five, a four, a three, a two, a one.

He's done a couple of rounds of that when the 'fresher door opens. He lifts his head to watch her leave the room. She's clad in another skirt, as long as yesterday’s, but cream colored, more casual. Legs are _the_ theme for sure.

Luke goes into the 'fresher after, startled to find her when he opens the door. She lifts the blindfold up. 

“Put this back on.”

He does and she leads him forward with her hand curled on the back of his neck. 

“Stop.” He thinks based on the number of footsteps he’s taken that they’re still in the room. Her hand trails down his arm, pulls it back. The mystery is solved as one of the cuffs click around one wrist then the other. 

They have to be back at the living room, he thinks, confirmed when she says, “Sit.”

She feeds him breakfast, and it’s in the hopes of persuasion -- or fine, frustrated arousal -- that he might be a little enthusiastic, licking at her palm, sucking at her fingers, it’s just too bad he has no idea what her reaction is. On the other hand, all of this is so excessive, part of him is glad to be behind the wall of the blindfold. 

“Greedy, aren’t you?” she murmurs like lace and chocolate at once, and he’s already throbbing hard. 

If she ignores him any longer he might just bite her again, sure that’ll get him certain punishment. It’ll be above the threshold he’s stuck at. He’s desperate enough it might just end up in the same place. Punishment is a guarantee at least.

Before he can, she’s urging him up, and undoing the cuffs. They clank against a hard surface -- the dining table probably. A hand at his upper back pushes him forward. He feels something hard -- upholstery -- beside his leg and Chiara pushes him onto it. It's the sofa, and she slides up on his lap, sitting on her side like yesterday. Her hand drags down his side, over his ribs and he feels her hair along his cheek then her breath.

“You’ve been doing so well,” she purrs and it might have been a good idea not to provoke her, her lips are at his jawline, while her hand sweeps across his chest. “I’ll let you touch. Keep it over the clothing.”

Good to hold off, he thinks sliding his hands around her waist and then to her knee. No stockings today, so his hand just trails along her skin, while his other treks up to map the curve of her breast over the fabric of her blouse. It’s torturous in the best way, like her mouth at his shoulder, her hand rubbing along his thigh. If he only had the guarantee that he could actually finish...but she doesn't even touch his cock this time, and while his hips spasm once or twice, the way she’s sitting makes it unhelpful. When she nips just under his jaw he whines in a way that is both pathetic and impossible to hold back.

She pulls away with a laugh. “You want me to hike up my skirt, pull down my underwear and ride you?”

“Yeah,” he moans, palming her ass.

“Just not worth the trouble,” she says, her tone matter of fact. “You can't make it good for me like this.”

He could have argued, but her hand drops to his thigh and the sheer enormity of not getting off at all zaps all clarity away.

“Please,” he gasps, inching forward. There’s fabric covered something -- her arm or shoulder -- and he bites lightly, just out of _emphasis_. She gasps and he slides a hand up her back to guide himself to some part of her neck to leave a sucking kiss. That garners a shiver from her, but his attention _shatters_ at her hand inching up on his thigh up up, almost at the tip of his cock, rubbing at the wetness on his thigh.

“Look at that, I haven’t even really fucked you yet and you’re already sloppy for me.”

He might just die if she doesn’t, he thinks with no exaggeration whatsoever, and blurts out, another “Please,” for good measure. "Please."

She slides away from his lap which draws a protest from the back of his throat, tempered by her hand still on his leg. She’s close enough he feels her near, but he’s too worked up to figure out what she’s doing until he feels the drag of her tongue along his cock.

Her hand snakes around it in the next second as she swallows him down while he prays and pleads for her not to stop, clawing at the sofa cushions, utterly powerless not thrust into her mouth or stop the appalling amount of nonsense pouring out of his mouth. Holding off to make it last isn’t even an option. 

He slumps back against the sofa in a heap after. Chiara gives a slight suck that shades to pain before pulling off, giving a nip to his thigh before she goes. He’s too preoccupied getting air back to notice too much. Once that's settled, he realizes his head’s hazy and his whole body feels pleasantly leaden. Chiara sits beside him and pulls him to lie on his side, his head pillowed on her lap.

She may as well have beat him senseless.

“I’m going to take off the blindfold. Might be uncomfortable for a second while you adjust.”

He closes his eyes and she slides it off, blinking at the light. Her hand strokes his hair. 

“How was that?” she asks.

Luke hums against her leg. Out of his hands, he thinks, once he can. 

However he may feel in twelve hours, there's no way he's going to stop. No way he's _not_ going to push and pull at his schedule, no way he's not going to invent another research trip so he can end up right here, like this with her.

It's inevitable.


	4. Venerable Images

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Some of the impact section could be held after orgasm, but be aware that the pain threshold will be lowered dramatically. With work to build it back up, there's the possibility of the intensity leading to an altered psychological state. Responses are highly individualized and on the whole positive, but it is a state of cognitive impairment. This might or might not be of interest. I have attached some references below and suggestions for implements._

“Is that what has you stir crazy?” Leia asks, tearing off a piece of her bread. It’s weekend brunch and Luke’s setting the rest of the containers on the table.

“Stir crazy?” he echoes, looking over to Han for explanation.

Han shakes his head and goes for the candied paste and a muffin. “A little antsy. You're not all...," he makes a gesture and Luke feels some alarm rise, "there sometimes. Not that noticeable.”

“I get it,” Leia leans forward to place a hand on his wrist. “No one expected the Ay’li Territories to be so stubborn when they came to the table. Do you have another trip coming up? I thought it was that. You get like that before them.” 

“Yeah.” Luke dispels his alarm by force of will. He hasn't figured out if that unsettled feeling is the cause or the result of his trips offplanet; it seems like dewback or egg issue the more he thinks about it. “A monastery over at Al’doleem.”

“Where is that?” Leia glances at Han.

Han squints. “Mid Rim?”

Luke nods, pouring himself some caf and sitting down. Han had said it wasn't that noticeable. Besides it's normal that they can read that in him. They're _family_.

“Last spot was Mid Rim,” Han notes.

Luke winces a little. He hates all of these obfuscations, but he's too locked in, now that he's been doing them for the last ten months. “I’d want to go...further, but given,” he waves a hand, “everything going on. I can’t afford the days.”

“Where was it?”

“New Holstice? Monument. Not much there.” He had gone, only...that hadn’t been the highlight of his trip anyway. Or the reason.

“Must have been nice to...escape,” Leia says. “Seemed like you needed it. I know how all the politicking can get to you.”

“Yeah.” He looks away for a second. “I don’t know how you do it.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know how you can spend hours at the gym before the sun's even up. You’re doing fine.”

Luke flashes her and Han a lopsided smile. “I wish I could, I don't know, focus on something real.”

Leia frowns, but doesn't say anything. She doesn’t have to, he’d heard it enough times to know that all the smalltalk and schmoozing in her eyes was real -- or as important a component of getting things done.

He takes another sip of his caf. “Or I don’t know quit that too and just go back to learning again.”

“To teach?” Leia asks.

Luke nods. “For later.” Much later.

“It’s a good idea,” Han starts. “Taking trips every so often. Keeps you clear. Also reminds people how to solve their own problems when you’re not around.” He juts his chin at Leia. “Couple of your colleagues could use that reminder.”

“Yeah, well, _I_ can’t plead Jedi,” Leia grouses.

Luke brightens slightly. He’d always hoped she could do more. He’d taught her a couple of basic techniques, but it'd been haphazard. Their schedules rarely line up, and when they do it's because both of them _make_ them line up. “You could.”

Han leans back. “How about we all take a couple of days to look around Al’doleem?”

Discipline makes it so Luke doesn't stiffen. He probes lightly at his sister, but only feels her dismay.

Leia shakes her head. “Come on, Han. The Trade Summit's coming up.”

He looked over at Luke who shrugged. “Worth a try, eh? But if you ever want company, kid...”

Luke smiles at him, equally tamping down on his relief. “No, that’s okay. You’d find all these Jedi places boring. They’re mostly ruins.”

\--

New Ambalaar is a settlement in the river moon of Al'doleem. It's relatively new, about as old as Luke, built after the dams in Ambalaar City had collapsed and the entire city had flooded without warning. It'd been a catastrophe of epic proportions, and there's no official explanation as to what happened to date. Legends, however, run wild as they tend to do.

In the settlement Luke had been told the old Jedi monastery in Mt. Pasvaal had been the home of a Jedi who'd taken a vow to leave the world behind and focus on the Force, an anchorite.

A remnant.

No one had seen him in decades. Looking out to the darkened shape of the mountains in the distance, Luke had reached out, hoping for a spark of something. Too far, he'd told himself. And he'd dared imagine finding a sage on the mountain top. Such a person might not want to come back to the world. Luke would expect that -- neither of his old masters had wanted it. He wouldn't presume to pull such a person back.

But he did imagine unclipping his lightsaber and shedding his cloak, sitting beside the sage.

 _Teach me, master_ , he'd say, his hands resting on his knees. _I know so little_.

Maybe he'd wait a week, maybe a month, maybe longer, but the sage would answer. He could hardly be a Jedi if he could not discern a genuine heart. A sincere plea.

Luke finds nothing at the monastery. Below it though at the bottom of some cliffs, he follows the echoes of tumult in the Force to pieces of machinery. The echoes grow stronger, a familiar rage, spending itself.

One of the legends is that the old master and the whole city died at the hands of a Sith.

Al'doleem is twelve hours from Sibisime.

\--

Luke leaves Al'doleem earlier than he anticipated, but tells himself he won't change his schedule with Chiara. He can wait. It's only a couple of days that he can fill with reading, or if he's feeling up to it, go through Allaj's messages and get some work done. 

He makes it through one before he messages Chiara about moving up their session a day earlier. She responds promptly that it's not a problem, indicates that he should always let her know if his schedule changes, since she's more likely than not to accommodate.

He doesn't want to think it's because of the credits, but it sneaks in and makes a home like a mynock in an access panel gap. 

In this session, after the lightsaber's been put away, Chiara waits until he gets his clothes off then gestures him to the bedroom where she sits on the bed.

“Take off my shoes.”

Luke drops in front of her, reaching for her heel. The pumps she’s wearing come off easily. She’s wearing one of those thin stockings and the memory sends a hot stab of heat through him. She doesn't always wear them, but when she does she has a variety of...uses to them.

“My stockings. There’s clips.”

He reaches to push up her skirt.

Chiara's hand falls on his. “No. Under.” She pulls his hand to the side of her knee.

He gets it, and skims his hand up searching for the clips. How many are they anyway? He doesn't have a clue. But as his hand grazes her inner thigh he catches her breathing go deeper than usual and looks up, meets her eyes. 

Her gaze was on him already and she doesn’t look away. He doesn't expect her to even though there’s a tinge of red darkening along her cheeks. The last time he saw her flushed, she had the flogger in hand and bits of her bun had come loose. She’d also had him come on her leg, which should have been dirty and degrading, but he’d been too turned on to care. The fact he'd still do it if she asked isn't one he likes to dwell on. He's given a positive check to a lot he doesn't like to think too deeply about.

Luke slides off one clip, and she helps by lifting her leg to he can get to the clip at the back of her thigh. He can’t see it, but that borderline between the stocking hem and her skin drives him to distraction as he sinks his fingers between and pulls, there’s a slight rip as it gets to above his knee, and he stops with a wince. Wall?

Chiara tsks. “Careless. Try your mouth.” 

He swallows and nods. Seems like she's not feeling that exacting. Chiara extends her leg and he leans forward, nosing along her knee to where the thin fabric is bunched. 

Luke takes his time, exceedingly careful not to tear them again. It takes forever, but when he finally slides them off her heel and down, he noticed her breath is a bit fast. 

He’s not that successful at hiding his smile. Chiara ignores it. He would lean forward to do the same with the other but it’s still clipped up and that would entail his whole head under her skirt. That’s a logistics problem. The skirt is narrow. He waits.

“Good boy,” she murmurs and her eye tracks down to where he’s hard. He shifts a bit, the focus before had brought him down somewhat, but the pleased tone of her voice, washes over him like molasses.

"Your hands again. You rip them again and I’m calling for dinner.”

He definitely doesn't want that so he concentrates, focusing on the clips and the cloth less than her skin. He’s successful and settles back again. 

“Fold them and put them on the other side of the bed.”

Luke complies. Chiara pats the spot beside her and he goes. Folding the stockings did nothing for the flushed, incensed feeling, his cock jutting up, impossible to miss.

“Hand on my thigh.”

Not knowing where exactly, Luke drops his hand right over her knee. He’s rewarded with a chuckle. “Inner thigh and up.”

He’s already sliding his hand up her skirt. Chiara shifts, and that response shoots through him. He stops at the apex between her thighs.

“Get me off,” she says.

She’s been projecting this since she sat down. The image of her breathless and quivering bursts into his head. Luke controls a hitch of his hips. She hasn’t invited him to try anything with skill before. Generally it's been her making herself come, either with him inside her -- or as it’s been the last couple of times -- against his face, a hand vise tight in his hair. While all of that has been good enough to note in his required response to the documents, impulsively, he'd broached the challenge of learning her, trying as best he could to mimic the dry and formal register of their correspondences. Hopefully, it'd come off less clumsy than he'd felt writing it. She'd replied favorably, which had been encouraging. He's found it's easier to ask for definitions and clarifications than to suggest outright. 

He might suggest more from here on in though.

Luke slides his hand over her underwear, staring at her as he feels her heat and dampness against his palm. She’s wet; he can’t wait to find out how much. 

He licks his lips, scooting closer, his hip flush against hers. He half turns as he traces up and down through the underwear, first lightly, then with a bit more pressure. He does a few more passes, drops his hand down to her thigh to stroke there, her breath hitches a little. These are not the usual circumstances in which he’s made a girl come. He has a lot less leeway, but the precariousness has a draw he can't quantify.

Luke runs his fingers along her thigh, eyes drifting to her lips. Full on kissing's gotten a positive check but thus far, Chiara hasn’t included it in any session. 

He returns to the front of her underwear over the cloth, trails his hand up to the waistband of her underwear. It’s low, several inches below her navel, and he ghosts his hand along her skin, drops it between her thighs again, sliding his fingers under the hem. She inhales sharply, which is gratifying. Maybe...He slides his fingers along her slit. Another intake of breath. He does that for a while barely touching her. She’s warm and damp; he'd want her to be dripping. 

“You’re boring me.”

Maybe it means he needs to up his pace and Luke sinks two fingers not inside her but between her folds. Chiara gasps a little, and there she’s slippery and slick. He takes in the slight squirm.

“And I’m getting hungry.”

Fine. Luke shifts his fingers up, slight touch to her clit. She pulls a breath and he tries for a firmer touch. She shifts, and he takes it as his cue, trying to ease into a rhythm, inwardly cursing the restriction in motion of her underwear. There’s no change in her expression. He doesn't think the way he’s touching her is amounting to much, and lowers his fingers back down to her folds, sinks one into her. That gets a reaction, another slight gasp, but her breathing is still too even.

She turns, and he realizes she’s going for her comm. He almost groans, because this a favorite dismissal of hers, no matter who's on the receiving end apparently. Last time he'd had the temerity to grumble over sharing her attention with the counterbeing for N'lor Palace, she'd sent him to the wall, only touching him to loosen his muscles after. And then she'd gone to bed. Chiara's always given him a chance to get into her good graces the next day, but the wait is still annoying.

Not enough to take the positive check away though, the intensity the day after tends to compensate.

“Don’t stop,” Chiara orders, with a superior look. “It’s nice.”

Nice, in that tone, like it’s a decent detailing job, a passable deck scrubbing. Her expression has shifted to mildly interested in wherever she’s calling.

“Yes, I’d like to place an order.”

The next thrust of his fingers might not be that gentle, but Chiara’s tone doesn't change. Her hips _do_ cant toward him, so it could be all the hesitancy that is leading him astray.

“But do the lafor come with alle cake?” Her voice is breathier and on the outstroke he presses a knuckle down. She’s not speaking, but she clenches around his fingers, the feeling making his cock throb. There. He keeps that pace with the thrust of his fingers, and the graze of his knuckles.

“Yeah.” Her voice has gone huskier. “A lafor plate an order of ysha, and aga, a-a-and --” His attention is back at her clit with his thumb while his fingers thrust in, and she’s moving with him, her hips rolling a bit against his hand. This is working, he thinks with some triumph, fingers pushing in harder; she’s wetter now. “A-a-a bonze plate. No-o hold the erak. Okay, fine.”

He twists his fingers slightly, but it’s difficult to get any range in this position with her underwear in the way. 

“That is-is correct.” He wishes her voice were shakier. “Great.” 

Chiara closes the line, as he keeps his tempo, but she’s pulling away entirely, and rearranging her underwear. 

Blast it.

Chiara’s mouth forms a slight smile as she looks at him. “You’ll learn.” It vanishes leaving only the usual aloof expression. “We’re having Cambra, go wash your hands and set the table.” 

\--

Luke’s not much fond of Cambra. It’s like asking for a grocery delivery. He never understands why anyone would pay a restaurant to give you what amounts to raw ingredients for you to cook for yourself. It might be a city thing. The apartments the agency puts them at are fully stocked which means they carry the requisite autoburner for this kind of meal.

Luke doesn’t outright hate it. He cares little about food, which is why he's never bothered to address it on the exchanges. He does gets the sense some of the clientele do, that some might be into micromanaging the sessions, which strikes him as defeating the purpose. He'd gone as far as to note his _complete satisfaction at your initiative in all domains_ in his reply last time, which had felt _so_ creepy and weird that he'd pretended it was one of those tedious performance reviews the Alliance used to have him do, and promptly shoved it out of his mind.

He sets the burner on. The food arrives, and as usual Chiara goes to get it. She left her datapad on the table. It’s on, and his eye passes over it as he gets the rest of the utensils out. Instead usual financial news and reports, he sees a list of what look to be ship parts under the logo of SoroSuub. 

She comes back and while he’s not consciously drawing on the Force, her alarm is palpable for one breathless second. Sudden as afterburners, it vanishes and she puts the food on the table. It’s a strange reaction, as if this is something to hide. He files it away as another piece of her, particularly intriguing for it being something she didn’t want him to see. He doesn't get that much, not even with the number of sessions they've had. With every session, too, his curiosity is tempered by how much he doesn't want to lose this, how he'll follow all the conditions he needs _to the letter_ , so he can keep this with her, so he can have it as a certainty. 

But why would she’d be interested in ship parts? Is it for another investment? He's gathered she's an amateur investor of sorts, likes to imagines her sitting in some apartment like this on her comm ordering her underlings to sell or buy, discussing profit margins and portfolios. 

He doesn't like imagining the alternative.

Chiara looks at him with careful eyes as he puts the raw vegetables and meat on the pot. 

“What are you thinking?”

“That Cambra is annoying," he replies easily. "If you wanted something homecooked you could just order actual ingredients and I could make something -- but you'd have to at least let me wear my underwear.”

He thinks she’s going to call him mouthy and send him to the wall -- she's done that for less-- but she simply says, mildly skeptical, “You cook?”

Luke pushes her bowl in front of her, and arranges the sauces on the side of the burner. “Sometimes.”

Chiara props her chin up with her hand, an elbow on the table. It's full skepticism now. “Really.”

He shrugs, says the first thing that comes to mind. “My dustcrepes aren't bad.”

Chiara laughs. It's not as snide as it could be. “Dustcrepes. Appealing.” She snaps her fingers next to her chair, and he goes to sit.

She hands him a bowl with his portion, but keeps his chopsticks. Routine.

Other than that, she ignores him clean through dinner, not even her hand at his head. It might be the fact that he didn’t make her come or his commentary on the meal. He would have preferred immediate consequences to any of those and he suspects she knows it too. It's why she's dragging it out as another form of punishment. He leans against her leg though and she doesn't pull it away or nudge him off. He's still allowed. A good sign.

And dinner’s over. “Put everything away then come to the bedroom.” Chiara goes ahead, and as he clears all the annoying paraphernalia of the meal, he hears the shower come on. Also a good sign, and a clue. No heavy impact tonight. He's not yet able to predict when exactly she'll take their time if left to her own devices, though he has some latitude to move her, mostly through misbehavior. He'd been right all those sessions ago when he took the no sex condition off. Punishment is a guarantee. A promise.

Luke goes in the room later and finds her on the bed, wearing some low cut underwear and a tank. Definitely no heavy impact tonight.

Chiara has a bundle of rope next to her and crooks a finger to beckon him. Once he’s there she makes a spinning gesture with her hand. He turns and feels her loop the rope around his wrists; it scratches lightly along along his arms.

“Pull,” she orders and he does. His arms are bound tighter than with the cuffs, the bindings also go further past his wrists to the middle of his forearm. Chiara runs a finger between the rope and his skin to check the tension.

Satisfies, her hand darts away from his forearm, splays along his hip and curves over the round of his ass, sliding down to his upper thigh. It’s an entitled touch that feels daring even with all the sessions he’s had. She gives him a firm thwack that makes him jerk, and suck in a breath. It’s not the kind of strike that means business, though.

“Turn around.”

But he's more used to walking around with a hard on now, so at least there’s that. He can meet her eyes once he does, his embarrassment fainter than it had once been. 

Chiara doesn’t waste time getting her mouth on him, which makes him grunt and instinctively pull against the bindings, distantly he knows this is prelude, there’s no way she’s going to let him come -- he's done nothing to earn it -- but he forgets with the hot drag of her mouth along his cock, the tease of her tongue along the length of it. She soon falls into the kind of stroke and suck pattern that makes him wriggle a bit against the bindings. She pulls off with a wet pop, wiping at her mouth.

“I hope you're better with your mouth than with your hands,” she says taking in his disappointment with a smirk “Get on the bed. ”

It’s awkward with his hands tied, but he does, raising on his knees.

She puts a hand under his chin and meets his eyes. “Make me come and you can,” her expression goes haughty, because, like before, it's a clear set up, “whatever way you’d like.”

There’s always a catch though. The dejarik board's stacked against him. Always. He hasn't made it through once yet.

And there it is: “But I’m not taking my clothes off. Questions?”

He thinks, imagining trying to get her underwear off her with her sitting there, uncooperative and _bored_. “Will you move?”

There's a smile lurking in her lips as if she's visualizing it too, and trying not to laugh. “If properly persuaded. Anything else?”

That makes it much more workable. “No other...prohibitions?”

“No biting.”

He’s up for it though and his eyes rove over her as he wonders where to begin. 

“You’re boring me again,” she says, and yawns. “Hurry it up or I’m calling it a night.”

Okay. Luke goes to brush his lips against her cheek. Starting any other way feels strange. She makes a sound that turns into a bucket of cold water when he realizes it’s a laugh. 

Luke ignores it, and drops his mouth to her shoulder, kissing there, then trailing kisses down her arm, kisses back up to her neck, but in her position it’s hard to reach, so he nuzzles along her jaw, slides his lips over hers. Predictably, she's as responsive as furniture.

But he hasn't really started yet, and he settles to nuzzle her cheek, brushing feather light kisses there, going back to her lips with one kiss, tries another one. He nuzzles along her ear, presses a bit, following his curiosity, and she bares her neck a little. He nuzzles there, brushes a kiss, slight, then presses his lips fully. She sighs, and he returns to her lips; they feel softer now. This kiss is better than the first time, but there’s more persuasion to do. Luke leans back, the bindings making it hard to angle his head to get at the hollow of her throat. It’s too awkward, and he loses his balance, falling head first into her lap with a muffled noise.

Chiara laughs again, and he’s annoyed at the inconvenience of everything, but his current position has possibilities. He scoots clumsily to press his face against her stomach through the tank, inhaling her scent. There's no trace of that floral perfume she wears sometimes, just her, maybe a hint of soap. Luke feels the flutter of her stomach muscles through the tank's fabric as she chuckles.

An idea comes to him, and he keeps scoots on his side to nuzzle along her hip. He finds the hem of the tank at her hip and pulls it up with his teeth, revealing a strip of bare skin and he nuzzles there for one amazing instant before the cloth falls back down. Another low chuckle falls from Chiara, but it’s a tank -- he doesn't have to get it off, he can get it down by the straps. That part won't be hard at all, but he has enough to do before that. He noses along her side.

The tank's material is conveniently thin, and regardless of how Chiara’s been laughing, she's not so unaffected that her nipples don't show. Luke nuzzles a caress there, at one peak, then emboldened, licks it through the cloth. Chiara shifts drawing a breath, which is all the impetus he needs to suck one into his mouth even through the fabric. Her gasp is loud; she's not laughing anymore. When he does the same to her other nipple, he listens but hears no gasp though she squirms, and he tells himself that's good too.

Encouraged, he kisses up to her neck and returns to her lips. They feel even softer that before, this kiss is _much_ better. He tries for another again, his tongue darting slightly across her lower lip and she shifts, leans forward to melds her lips to his. The kiss gets intoxicating -- all in the way her tongue moves against his, and he’d stay indefinitely, but his neck is hurting from the clumsy position.

Luke has to withdraw, gasping, his heart racing. One of her hands is at his shoulder, and he turns his head to kiss her wrist, leans back to kiss along the back of her hand, then her palm. He slides his eyes to her as he kisses the center of her palm again and gives it a leisurely lick. 

Chiara chuckles again, but it sounds different in that breathier register, summoning the feel of her hands and mouth.

Luke shifts, heat rushing through him with that familiar restlessness, but he has the perfect outlet, and he sucks on each of her fingers then trails his mouth along her arm back up to her shoulders. With his teeth, he tugs at the straps of her tank. It takes him a bit, his focus is more than a little off, but finally they’re down. He pauses to admire her breasts, inching his eyes back to hers.

She meets his gaze with the same steadiness; he's about dive forward to all that exposed skin to see if he can shake that poise a little when he realizes that getting her underwear off half sitting might end up being a problem. He needs to get her horizontal. 

Persuasion.

It's worth a shot, it's no more foolish than anything he's been doing. He nears her shoulder rubs his cheek against it, adding slow pressure. Kisses it again. Adds more pressure with his cheek.

Chiara chuckles again but goes, sliding down. He'd...not been expecting that to succeed so soon. Tamping down on a shiver of excitement, he scoots, leans over to kiss her, and the kiss is amazing this time. Her hands wander down his shoulders to his back, back up to his hair while she devours his mouth. He shifts closer, lying on her, almost, her leg between his. She rolls her hips with a moan into his mouth, hand grabbing at his ass, and he trades off a groan as his cock rubs messily along her thigh. Her lips trail to his ear and she sucks his earlobe between her teeth before she whispers, “If I have to make myself come, you don’t get to.”

And that’s as good a threat as any. Luke drags himself away, pressing kisses along her collar bones, drawing lower to linger a bit on her breasts until she’s moaning ragged, her nipples reddened and tight. He might avoid the stick _entirely_ this time, he thinks with a bit of shock. Not that it's ever been a problem. He _has_ come inside her once or twice before, but those times she’s made it so it’s been at the tail end from the type of cocktail of adrenaline and endorphins that's made him too blissed out to be able to parse the experience with much detail after. 

He hasn't ever minded, it's never occurred him _to_ mind, but this...he wants this. 

Luke trails open mouthed kisses down her stomach and noses along the waistband of her underwear, his cock throbbing at the scent her arousal. Impatience wins out, and he leaves the waistband, settling between her thighs, bending to press a kiss at the juncture between her legs, hiding a smile when she curses low, her hips tilting against his mouth, the fabric so soaked he can taste her through it. 

Luke moves back again to nuzzle at her thighs. Chiara gasps, curses, leans down and yanks him up by the hair to a sloppy, breathless kiss, the best one yet, but her legs curl around his, hips grinding, and he’s reminded of her threat. He pulls back and slithers down to kiss off the side of her bent knee, trailing kisses along her leg down to her ankle, scoots back further and bends to leave a sliding kiss from the top of her foot to her toes. Chiara lifts up on her elbows, peering down at him, and he turns his head, rubs his cheek along the side of foot. She lifts it to level with his shoulder.

It occurs to him that without his arms to balance and this close to the edge of the bed, if she chose to push at his shoulder with her foot she could dislodge him from the bed entirely. She won't though, and he rubs his cheek against her foot, draws back to brush his lips against her toes.

All of this is called something specific he doesn't remember, though he does recall it's apparently a subset of _erotic humiliation_ , rather sensational and exotic sounding for what it is. Luke's not taken in with the names; this is not as daring as being smothered by her thighs or even that baton thing they'd gone over.

The way Chiara looks at him is challenging, and he flicks his tongue out at her toes. Her intake of breath at that is loud, but neither her expression nor her position change. Luke reads surprise in it regardless, and it's not like it's a hardship to suck at her toes. She lets out a whispery laugh that has none of the composure she's obviously clutching to herself.

Luke draws away to her other leg, repeating the same treatment, Chiara's tension perceptible like charged air. He trails his mouth up from her ankle to the side of her knee, and that gets him another sharp inhale. The same along her thigh leads to a moan, the rush of satisfaction near euphoric. I can do circumspect too. 

Luke turns his attention to her underwear, trying to get at the hem with his teeth. 

“Ow,” Chiara flinches away ,and Luke freezes, realizing he'd accidentally bit her. But apparently he’s done well because not only does Chiara settle back after, but she _also_ pulls her underwear down.

Luke lunges for her once she gets a leg out, pressing a firm kiss to her mound before seeking for the taste of her. He’s done a _really_ good job, the way she’s moaning and arching under his tongue, but that’s also its own complexity as her jerky motions make him lose his pace. For a second he’s not sure how it’s going to work if he can’t keep her still, but Chiara is used to getting what she wants and grabs at his head. It’s not the usual roughness, instead of digging into his scalp, her hand eases up, simply cups him, and he senses her schooling herself back to give him more range of movement -- it does feel like she’s doing it with the intent of not making it easy.

If so, she’s underestimating how close he’s already gotten her, because she’s sopping wet and trembling, against him as he laps at her, he only needs to angle his head just so, just to where she's held him before, to flick his tongue against her clit, keep it even despite the way her thighs clamp around his head. With a high broken sound, she’s coming, the spasms pushing her away, and he leans forward with a soft suck that makes her hips jut up, some obscenity groaned loud, fingers digging so hard into his scalp he feels her nails. Her thighs and hold relax a second later. He feels her fall back on the bed.

Luke wipes his face on the sheets and leans his cheek against her thigh. 

Chiara sits up and rolls her eyes at him. “Your smug face,” she pants.

It’s at the tip of his tongue to point out how it takes one to know one, but he holds off. That'd been good, but also _work_. He's not waiting until tomorrow.

Chiara pulls him further into the bed, snaking a hand around his cock, meeting his eyes. “How do you want it?”

The question, so transactional, puts him off, but she leans forward to kiss him, sliding her palm down his hip to his cock. The kiss is as heady as last time, and he rasps, “On me.”

She flicks her tongue at his lip and he gives chase for another kiss.

“My cunt?” she says against his lips.

He sucks in a breath and nods, tilts his head to his arm -- the bindings. “Can you...?”

“No.” She pushes him back, and slides a leg over him, pulling her tank top over her head. “You stay put until I'm done with you.”

He makes a sound of protest. 

Chiara flashes him one of her wicked smiles. “Try another request.” She starts sinking down on his length. 

He’s having a bit of trouble getting his thoughts together, but manages to bite out. “S-slow.” 

Chiara laughs a little, but settles and starts a maddeningly languid rise and fall of her hips. The movement is one thing, how she checks his attempt to bend his legs for leverage with another one of her breathy chuckles is another, but then there’s how she runs her hands over him, proprietary and bold, like he exists only for her. He can sink then, in the immediacy of her body as if its his one tangible certainty. It may as well be. Here. 

“Fuck, you’re good,” she half moans, speeding up a little. “I could...keep you.”

It's all he needs, and he's right there along the edge, driven further with every rise and fall of her hips, every moan. She bares the arch of her neck with her exhale, slides her hands up her body, over her breasts, squeezing. He wants those hands to be his, wants thrust into her hard and fast, but it's wanting and _not having it_ , being _given_ something else out of his hands, that makes him feel untethered, and _light_.

“Use you like this,” she chokes out leaving a hand rubbing along her breast as her other strokes down between her thighs, her rise and fall faster, skin glistening with sweat. “...every fucking night.”

Luke grits his teeth, pulling against the bindings, clinging on to the few ecstatic seconds he has left, and Chiara whimpers softly, like she does when she’s about to come, her rhythm stuttering, and he shudders, a low moan dragged out from him. 

Chiara’s palms are flat on his chest, he realizes, once his release fades and heart thuds in his ears. She’s leaning slightly forward. His eyes track up as she straightens up and brushes the loose strands of her hair back with a heavy sigh. 

It hits him with the suddenness of a punch to the gut. She’s the girl he’s always wanted.

Chiara meets his eyes with a smile and gently shifts off him. “Let’s get you untied.”

Luke forces himself to sit, and feels her pull at various places on the rope. The pressure around his arms eases as Chiara pulls the rope off and places it on the bed, and he stretches the knotted muscle. Chiara begins to knead it. Normalcy returns, and he feels a slow heavy creep of embarrassment at himself.

He doesn’t know her. At all. She doesn’t know him either. And it's _on purpose_. He should know better than to imagine there's anything other than...sexual compatibility. 

To dig the knife further he reminds himself, I’m paying for this. For her. Not a body, but that’s exactly what this is.

His stomach turns a little and he wants pull away from Chiara’s hands, but forces himself to stay still. This is on him; he’s not about to be rude or unkind because she’s good at her _job_.

And she’s very good, he sneaks a glance at her as she starts on his other arm. He knows she’s Force sensitive...Chiara might not really know him, but she has an eye for his moods. She can read when he’s restless and feels stuck in his own head. She knows when he needs a shock of adrenaline, or when he needs everything to stop. He's thought of telling her before, but always changes his mind. Why should he?

But is it more than that? Is she _doing_ something? If she is, he can’t feel it, and he would, he’s certain of it. Could it be something operating below conscious level, something perhaps perceivable not just by him, but maybe by _any_ Force sensitive, like Falleen pheromones? Something compulsive that all Force sensitives are susceptible to?

His stomach heaves more. He wants desperately to get his clothes and leave. 

“Luke?”

He blinks.

This the first time he’s seen Chiara concerned. “Something’s wrong? Pins and needles? Where? You look pale.”

Luke shakes his head at a loss over what to say. 

“Arms feel okay?”

He nods, passes a hand over his face. His reactions are excessive. Excessive. He can't possibly be looking to _blame_ her for his own foolishness. That's a new low.

“Maybe need some fresh air,” Luke mumbles. He looks over to her, and can’t help but reach out with the Force to sense...concern, wariness underneath.

“Luke?” 

Luke draws back. That didn’t help. If she were doing it unconsciously...

 _Stop that_ , he tells himself, and stands. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just going to get dressed and go out to the balcony for a bit.” He flounders, groping for any explanation to give. “I--I--”

Chiara lifts a hand. “It’s all right if you feel like calling an end to the session--”

He doesn’t quite know what prompts his quick, “No.”

Chiara startles a bit at it.

“It’s just stuff in my head,” he finds himself saying. “I didn’t expect...I just need to clear it out.” He forces a smile at her. Even if it’s something unconscious it’s _still_ not her fault. “It’s always a challenge to make time for -- for this, and you were...nice enough to change the schedule to sooner. I don’t want to waste it.”

Chiara smiles, though there’s some guardedness in it. “Okay.”

“I’m just--I’m just going to take some air and go to bed. I’ll be fine tomorrow and we can--we can continue.” He swallows. It’d be weird to sleep here without them going through a... _performance_ his brain spits out. “I’ll sleep out there.” He gestures to the living room and hopes desperately she won't offer him the bedroom. 

“If you want to,” she says evenly. “If for any reason you’d like to terminate the contract, you are within your rights to, no questions or explanations are required.” 

“No, I definitely don’t,” he assures her. “I’m -- I'm going to go clean up and go.” He gestures outside, and before it gets anymore awkward, tells her, “Good night.” 

\--

The night outside is balmy. The night city is only beginning to rise at this time. Luke doesn’t know how long he stays outside. He knows he could go inside and meditate, but it feels uncomfortable here, he's too used to putting all that aside in this context. That's the problem. 

Would he be happier if he hit the off switch on all this. Stop the hypocrisy? That's what all that paranoia is about. He's a fool.

It would be _honest_ to put a stop to all this. To have Han and Leia and his obligations. It’s enough for anyone. No more sneaking around. Be the face.

But the more Luke thinks about it, the more he wants to back inside, seek Chiara out and lose himself in her skin again. Absent that to have her unstick him from his, strike by strike. 

He could scale this all back. He could. He should. Needs must was not the Jedi way, and even if he had’t felt like a Jedi since Mindor, he should strive to play the part to the fullest. 

Luke rubs at his face. 

And hope no one sees the fissures snaking through.

He shuts his eyes and goes back inside.

\--

“I made breakfast,” he announces the next day when Chiara comes into the kitchen. "Seems like a waste not to use what's in the conserv. Made you a plate."

She’s dressed in a pantsuit and that’s a cue. He can’t really blame her for going conservative, given last night.

Her eye drops to the plate he placed on the counter. Luke can’t read her expression, but it was rash to fall back on probing her with the Force last night. He doesn't want to do it again. He shouldn't need to here.

“Did you decide whether you’d like to continue?” she asks.

“I never wanted to stop," he summons a smile, "It was just about settling down. That’s all.”

“And today?”

“I’m good.” Luke meets her eyes. “Of course, I’d like to continue. But if last night was...a problem for you, I understand.”

Chiara's solemn. “You don't need to worry about that.” 

That's uncomfortable, but he's done getting in his own way, and this, he's sure about. "I'd like to continue then...please." 

Chiara looks at him steadily as she grabs the plate and in one motion lets it go. The action is so sudden Luke only stares as the plate drops and breaks sending shards of porcelain and food through the floor. 

It’s so shocking he reaches towards her instinctively for a read. Is she angry?

But all that washes back is focus. She steps around him for a bottle of joban fruit shake from the conservator. 

“Clean that up.” She closes the conservator door, with the side of her leg. “You ate already, correct?” She says as she shakes the bottle with one hard flick of her wrist.

“Yeah.” Luke stares on as she cracks the top open and throws the cap in the trash.

“Good. After you’re done you can take your clothes off.” She leaves the kitchen, drink in hand. “And go to the wall.”


	5. False Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Galactic City is Galactic for the way it brings together sentients of all kinds with diverse cultures and histories. Jedi may be only a fragment of this vibrant tapestry, but remain an important one, and one that has been suppressed for too long. Before any move can be made to revitalize the Temple District area, we need to first ascertain that we are not unknowingly complicit in further erasures of history. We cannot revitalize Coruscant without first accounting for its sedimented past. I thank Greater Coruscant's Municipal Authorities for their unceasing commitment and support in this matter._

There had been a lot of stick after that.

It'd been actually a baton, kind of, not _that_ stun baton, that one had been absent. Luke knows because Chiara had asked him to pick the implement after she'd called him out of that stress position, and then worked out the kinks that came with it. Disappointed that she wouldn't choose for him, he'd looked for the stun baton first. Without it, the closest thing to it is a thinner baton about three fourths of an inch, and he opts for that in its stead.

But maybe there hadn’t been that much of it, only that the sharp cutting pain goes on forever, once Chiara really starts. Alternating the sting with a hard thud of impact makes it feel nothing like the paddle or the floggers. Soon Luke's crying out and arching, struggling against the rope around his wrists, pulling against the bedpost they're tied to, and that's it. Perfect.

He’d squeezed out “yes” after “yes,” groping to order his breathing. It's difficult. It's a race. His heart hammers in his chest at the intervals between each strike. When the strike falls, at some point the sting transforms, differently sharp, ecstatic. He shifts his hips, moans out another _yes_ , wanting more. He _gets_ more, and arches back with a cry, reedy to his ears. It's rapturous, and he can't stop moaning, his whole body buzzing. He _sinks_ into Chiara's pause when it comes, but still groans out another _yes_ , even as his limbs feel like they're melting into the bed. There's more.

Luke's head still feels muzzy when the strikes return. The answer to his yes, a wake up. Pain as real pain, making him gasp and grunt, a bright cold white in his head. A clear challenge. 

He can hold on. Has to. For one searing strike. For the next. The pain locks into an endless circuit. His breathing drops off too quick, and it takes effort to even it, to meet the sting and the thud without fighting it. To ride them like an updraft. High. Higher. And _there_. He can. He does. 

His head feels heavy. It would be easier to press his forehead against the mattress. He races against that too, utters more _yeses_ because he _can_ take the next hit, and the one after. It just takes...more. He grounds himself against the restraints, hard pull after hard pull. Counterpressure. Nothing else has been this certain.

A pause. Luke catches his breathing with difficulty. Lets the deep breathing go in favor of shallower inhales and exhales. Even with that cycle, it's...a lot. He shuts his eyes tight, feeling his face wet. He can't help the low moans that fall from his lips. They help. What doesn't help is the drag of the pause. There is more. He can take more. Is she waiting for him?

Because _yesyesyesyes_ , but saying it in more than a whisper is hard, until it isn't because he's screaming it out as Chiara obliges. 

It's no longer pain. It's no longer anything.

It's _far_. 

Really far. Everything is, and then she could go on forever.

Chiara's hands are by his arms as she undoes the restrains, and croons something, her hand rubbing down the middle of his back. She urges him to shift a little, away and up from the wet spot. Her hand lowers on his head, stroking along the side. He’d rubbed his cheek against the pressed fabric of her pants, floating on the sound of her voice as it arranges into _you did so well, Luke, really well_. He glides on the steady caress of her hand on his head. It smooths along his shoulders, his nape, weaves gently through his hair. 

Yes. Luke closes his eyes. Yes, he did.

He's jarred when he shifts, suddenly aware of a hard throb at the back of his thighs at the graze of some material. It hurts more than it’s ever had, pulling out a hiss. Chiara's hand strokes down his spine.

"Shh, just a towel. It should help."

Luke raises himself up on his elbows to look at Chiara dazedly. When had she gone to get it? 

But what leaves his lips is in a hoarse slur is "Your face is sweet."

His throat hurts. A lot.

Chiara smiles and reaches to cup his cheek. He sighs, leaning into her hand. Everything but this touch is still so blissfully far...it can stay there.

She gestures to the towel. "It’ll hurt for a couple of days.” She lifts her hand and strokes along his temple. "This is the hardest session we've had." He goes back to lay down and she says, “Wait, wait. A sip of this first.”

It’s water, and when he’s had enough, he drops down to her lap again, letting himself drift away to the play of her hand against his hair.

"Luke." He hears his voice as if from a distance. Her thumb brushing across his cheek rouses him gently. “You should eat something.”

He straightens up slowly from her lap and immediately shifts, wincing, but there's no sharp pain, just numbness. He reaches back. The towel's gone, a lighter sheet covers him. His hand comes back with something sticky though-- 

“I put some ointment on you,” Chiara explains. 

He murmurs his thanks, there’s some tension in her expression when he looks at her, his throat still hurts as he croaks, “What is it?”

“It’s before the allotted end time,” Chiara starts. “But I think...given the intensity of the session, it would be a good idea to extend it by a couple of hours.” She looks oddly nervous. “You leave Sibisime after, correct?”

He nods.

“So holding off until late evening to be safe.”

“It’s fine,” he mumbles.

Something crosses her face, it takes him a while to recognize it as annoyance. It looks different from her usual annoyance, subtler. “It's a safety issue, Luke. You know that.”

Luke passes a hand over his face. Yes, the documents have mentioned that the heavier the impact section the more the proctor should be vigilant, that there might be effects up until the next week without proper attention. But that's for normal clientele. Luke’s sure he'll be fine by mid-afternoon, and if for some reason his system’s still out of whack he can realign it himself somehow. 

“Not necessary.” The stab from last night is back and he adds, “You probably...have other commitments. Don't want to get in your way." He stares up at her. Her hair is messy a whole lot of it loosened from the usual bun, he likes this about these moments too, and loses his train of thought. He finds it a few seconds later. "Already messed up your schedule. Twice. Sorry.”

The tight expression on her face gives. “Don't be. Not my plans. The agency is strict about sticking to the allotted twenty-four hour period, but with the pause last night, they’d have no problem with extending the time limit.” Her eyes flicker and he looks away before he starts imagining it’s anything other than professional concern.

It’s not worth arguing. He always gives himself room with departures and arrivals, you never know what might turn up when you fly. His first commitment back at Coruscant isn’t until tomorrow evening anyway.

“Yeah, okay,” he replies.

“Food will be here soon,” she says, relaxing, and just for that he's glad he didn't insist. “But this should tide you over until then.” She turns, reaching for something on the bedside table and offering to him.

He laughs weakly. “Candy?”

She smiles. “Not exactly, but close.” She pushes her hand at him.

Luke reaches for them, undoes the wrapper and pops one into his mouth. It smells and tastes familiar and his eyes widen at the richness of it. “Chocolate?”

She nods. “You’ve never had it?”

“Just in liquid form -- powder,” he says over it, waving a hand, making a face at how sluggish his thoughts are. It's frustrating, but he takes it as a cue to settle down, focus on what he's eating. It’s actually less sweet than he would like, but he doesn’t mind.

“Really? Why?”

He shakes his head. “Dunno. Never thought to look for it any other way.”

“Too busy?” There’s amusement in her eyes.

“I guess.” He doesn’t know why he says it, but he goes on, “I'm not much of a candy person.”

“Hm,” she says.

“What?”

“It makes sense.”

“How?”

Chiara looks over at him. “It’s an indulgence. But in this case it’s a blood sugar thing. Completely different.” She offers him another with a smile. He takes it with a chuckle.

He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t, but...”And you, are you a candy person?” Luke can almost cringe at how it sounds now that he's less hazy, but the smile doesn't leave her face. 

“No, not particularly. I'm not that partial to sweets.”

Luke can't help but blurt out, "Any hobbies?” This is all a bad idea, but he goes on. "I, ah, like maintenance, work on--on ships."

Stupid. Maybe it was a mistake to ask anything, but the tone is a soft tease. "Don't you have techs for that?" 

"Yeah, I like knowing what's going on with my ship myself though. As much as I can. I don't have," he waves a hand, "expertise or anything." He frowns, he'd just been asking about her. "But you? I mean, besides that finance stuff."

She nods. He doesn't like that the smile has left her face.

"Anything else you like?" He goes for a soft tease of his own, hoping that will help. "Apart from Ithorian take out."

He's rewarded with a slight raise of her chin and a hint of a smile. "I'm still tired of it."

"Until next session," he says dropping his head back on her lap with a yawn. He's facing out and sees the baton by the wall. Simpler than a flogger, less sightly -- a good part of what he likes about the flogger is how it looks in Chiara's hand, after all -- but respectable. He'll ask for it again. Not right away though. He's going to be feeling it for a while. "You always go back to it. It's the old standard."

This gets him a chuckle. "I can always order something else if you mind."

Luke rubs his cheek along her thigh, wishing it was her skin, but she never does heavy impact with a skirt. It'd probably be impractical. Restrict her range of movement.

"I never mind." He sighs as her hand lowers again to his head, a caress from the top to the side of his neck and back up and he lifts his shoulders a little at it, not a shiver, but close.

“I’ve...been partial to the symphony,” she says after a moment.

Her hobby. Yes. He can see her, svelte and elegant in a throng of concert goers, hair still in that prim updo. The crowd would part for her, he's sure. 

“Have been,” Luke echoes, raising his head. “You don’t go anymore?”

Something passes through Chiara's face. “Sibisime is not that close to any of the centers of culture.” But Sibisime is on the edges of the Mid Rim, it’s not that long a trip. “A minor symphony or something comes annually, I go to those.” But she might not fly and the cost of hiring a ship and pilot to simply go to a concert might be too much trouble.

Her eyes focus on him. “Ever been to the Coruscant Symphony?”

Luke shakes his head. Not for lack of invitations, it's just not been for him. He'd feel like an interloper, easy to pick out as the discordant note, the Outer Rim bumpkin in a sea of Core cosmopolitans. It's yet to go away no matter how many fancy events he's forced to go to. Would it feel different to show up with a woman like her? It's a childish fantasy, but one hasn't been able to put a face to until now.

“They’re good.”

“The Coruscant Symphony," he echoes, dropping his head back down to her lap, when all he wants to say is _let's go, you and me_. He might be bored to death -- even the music itself is boring -- but he can just stare at her the whole time instead. "You’ve been to Coruscant?” He asks instead, bringing his hand up to trace the outseam of her pants with his index finger. 

“Chibias. I saw their performance there some years ago. Four or five, I think.”

Chibias, he thinks, only a few hours away. He’s tempted to ask her where she’s from. Something about how she said that discourages him. That's enough, he thinks. Her fingers stroke along his nape.

Luke wonders again just who she is, but he only closes his eyes. It doesn't matter as long as she's here.

\--

He’s back at Coruscant just as he thought and rushing over to his place to get dressed for a dinner meeting with the Coruscant’s Municipal Authorities and other representatives. The topic at hand is the reconstruction efforts over at the Temple District. A message comes from Allaj as he's tying his sash, giving him the lay of the land; the main cause for concern comes from a couple high profile developers who want to raze everything down right away in efforts to “revitilize” Coruscant.

It's a good heads up because the meeting proves frustrating, and not just because sitting down requires pain management techniques. Chiara had written there was a legitimate risk in drawing blood with batons, but he'd looked at the references and none of it put him off. Chiara didn’t end up breaking the skin, but there’s respectable welts and quite a bit of swelling. He suspects more than a few bruises to come. The exchanges at dinner are far more annoying than any aches. Much as Luke appeals to the functionaries to hold off -- he has yet to fully scour over the old Jedi Temple, much less the rest of the district -- he only gets a week’s grace period to assemble a team to pore over the area in search of any artifacts, Jedi or otherwise, that might be among the rubble and damage left from the Liberation campaign about a year ago. 

He complains to Leia after on the comm, feeling silly at having to lie on his stomach on his couch for the utter discomfort of lying on his back. His sister seethes one word: _jurisdiction_. They can make a claim for the Temple District containing material belonging to Jedi, which would mean Luke -- they'd only need to get lawyers involved, which instantly alarms him.

Thankfully, she changes her mind once Luke emphasizes the “powerful friends” refrain. Municipal issues are too small juban for someone of the Provisional Council to concern themselves over, and the more he can get away without antagonizing the beings in his orbit the better. After Luke closes the line, he considers attempting to heal all the aches, but the idea puts him off. He meditates, and lets himself drift off from the day, without even bothering to get off his couch.

Luke forces himself to the Imperial gym at the same time as always the next day, regardless of the sundry of hurts. That itself is a good exercise in discipline, anyway. Afterwards he has a packed schedule of meetings to coordinate with university archaeologists and comming with pleas for emergency funds. 

By noon he’s pacing at one of the conference rooms at Coruscant University's Archaeology Department as he takes a couple of comms. He's appealing to the Coruscant Museum -- to Jivan Kundra directly -- for funding when Chiara’s comm registers. There’s such a visceral tightness within him at it, an incredible and _shocking_ urge to drop everything and see her, that he loses the point he’d been making. Luckily, Kundra's persuaded already and interrupts the sudden burst of stuttering by simply asking Luke to put the proposal in writing and send it to Odile. In the middle of it Chiara has left a message.

Luke thanks him profusely, closes the line, and listens to Chiara’s message. It’s the usual check in. He knows that. He knows exactly what she’s going to say.

“This is Chiara Lorn. I’m calling about our session,” she lists the date and time, “I wanted to see how you were feeling.” Up to now, it’s the same as it’s always been. “The session proceeded a bit differently than it has before, so I wanted to repeat that the agency takes the comfort and well-being of its beneficiaries seriously. The option of terminating a contract needs no justification.” It’s all so _formal_ and distant, it’s hard to remember when that was comforting. It isn’t anymore. A cloying, scummy feeling wells up. 

Then her voice softens: “I hope you were able to find what you were looking for.” A pause. “Out of the session. In the end. There’s a tendency to dismiss what occurs in a session as less intense than...other experiences, particularly if we’re talking about,” she clears her throat, “combat of some sort. That’s not really the case. What we do is bounded, that’s all. It can provide an outlet or it can be...harmful without proper controls, so I'm glad you agreed to the extension last time. I hope you're doing well. Do comm me to go over anything in real time. I should have the documentation ready in a couple of days.” Another pause. “Hopefully--hopefully you’ll have a sense of when you can make time again. Talk to you soon.” 

For a long time, Luke stares at the comm. That’s the most stilted she’s ever sounded. He listens to it again, and yes, it’s ruffled in the second part. He goes to click in her code when his comm sounds again. It’s the head librarian for Greater Coruscant University approaching him about the restoration of several holocrons in the University’s collection. He barely has time to answer, before he has to speed off to a meeting with a couple of city officials with a map for the site. The message leaves the forefront of his mind. 

\--

The rest of the week is a nightmare of coordination to the tick of the clock. He has Allaj cancel all but the most serious requests from the Senate Building to focus on getting the excavation sorted. Once the initial hurdle of getting the team and their permissions in place, the media gets wind of it. That unleashes an exasperating circus, which Leia suggests he make work for him, so Luke bounces around, granting more interviews and writing articles for the HoloNet about the importance of the Temple District as a living record of Jedi history or some such.

The media blitz works has the happy result in granting a full month’s grace period for the team to scour over the area. By then the funds are midway and he and Allaj are neck deep in grant proposals. The Massey Foti Trust is having their gala, which becomes a great opportunity to schmooze up more credits and influence; Leia thinks it’s an excellent idea for him to go, and secures an invitation through a contact. At first he thinks he can just tag along with Han and Leia, but his sister ends up being too busy soothing ruffled feathers over a couple of planets denied entry to the New Republic for their draconian domestic policies. 

“I'll be fine,” he tells her somewhat grudgingly over that weekend's brunch. “More incentive to stay on target.” 

“I was just going to say take arm candy,” she calls out from the kitchen where she's disposing of her empty plate. “That Foundation is crawling with former courtiers. They won’t pay attention if you don’t show some polish.”

“What does arm candy have to do with polish?” Luke flashes a put upon look to Han. “This gets worse and worse.”

“You’re not anyone, unless you got another sentient draped on you,” Han drawls. “Be thankful you’re not being dragged to Gamorrean opera performances. Being arm candy’s not as easy as it looks.”

“Hush,” Leia says, coming back. “That was only one performance of many during the Day of Galactic Culture. But yes, this is not the kind of event you go to alone.”

Luke sighs loudly. “Maybe Aori from CU.”

Leia shakes her head. “You want as close to human as possible. These are conservative folk and they only look well upon their own. You can’t walk in beside an Aqualish and have them open up their wallets.”

“That’s speciesist,” he points out.

“That’s Old Core kriffery,” she retorts. “You want the credits or not?”

\--

He ends up asking Odile, and doesn't even pretend it's a social outing. This amuses her though, and it becomes a kind of group project. He has no regrets; she reads the room better than he does, and even knows people there. They partner up for a full on charm offensive that includes hashing over his biography more times than he thought humanly possible, launching the usual soft argument over the necessity of restoring Jedi patrimony (Leia’s choice of words), answering a gamut of questions about his background and Jedi, and a tepid joke or two as the finale.

The only enjoyable part of the evening is the all but certain knowledge that the team won’t need more funding. He's pretty sure the stuffy crowd was charmed; the idea of a Jedi Restoration Fund was bandied about a couple of times.

“That could be huge,” he tells Odile as he drives her home. “Leia’s been funneling me funds from the Office for the Preservation of Culture, but I don’t know for how long that’s going to hold, and it doesn’t seem right to put Jedi with the rest of the groups the Empire tried to stomp out.”

“Like invisec you mean?” Odile supplied.

He nods. That's the unofficial name for the “Alien Protection Zone,” a ludicrous name for what had amounted to segregated slums for nonhumans. Whole communities of diverse species forced to give up their individual cultures -- at least officially -- in order to live as an undifferentiated mass in a squalid district. Several representatives had come forward with proposals to excavate lost histories and make records of those who’d disappeared under the Imperial regime.

“Yeah, everything is fine for now. No one’s complained about funding allocations, but the sooner we can settle Jedi independently or even semi independently from the New Republic's budget, the better it will be. For optics too. It wouldn’t be help us for the populace to see Jedi as freeloaders.”

Odile laughs. “I very much doubt anyone is seeing you as a freeloader, Luke.”

He shrugs. He’d just come to her building and stopped the skimmer. “Thanks for braving the gala with me. I don’t think it would have gone well without you. The team’s not going to worry about anything for a while. At least we got that.”

“Well we need to follow up with these _humans of influence_ first,” she replies with some wryness. “Make sure they don’t change their minds. Hold their feet to the fire.”

“Right. First thing tomorrow.” He expects her to open the door, but she stayed in the seat.

“Luke?”

“Mm?”

“Do you do anything other than this?” She waves her hand around. “And the Jedi thing?” she adds almost as an afterthought. 

He passes her an odd look. “What do you mean?”

“Go to events. For yourself.”

He shakes his head, immediately on guard. “It’s not my scene.”

She's radiating sudden nervousness and he tamped on a wince as she says, “What is, then?”

That's what he’d dreaded. “I just don’t have time. For anything else.” 

Odile doesn't look put off, at least. She smiles tightly. “Right.”

He nods.

“But don’t you...get lonely?”

He thinks for a second. “I used to. Right after everything stopped. Now...There’s too much to do between Senate stuff, and the archival stuff--”

“The research trips.”

It takes a lot of his composure not to flinch. 

“Yeah, that’s...disciplinary,” he says, stomach clenching. He doesn't have to explain himself, but inexplicably keeps going, “Keeps me on target to focus on what being a Jedi means outside of all of this. Why I do it.” He swallows, trying to think past Chiara to weatherworn monuments, crumbling ruins, echoes of a past that had the tangibility of a dream, and the enormity of destiny. He can only think of her, the way everything just _stops_. Luke frowns. That's a mercy when it shouldn't be. He should be better than that.

Pity seeps out from Odile, jarring him out of his thoughts.

Luke forces a smile. “Everything’s about balance.”

“Yeah,” she says cautiously. “Just seems like a shame to have to leave Coruscant to find it.”

Luke nods. 

“Well, I was happy to help," she says briskly. "Let me know if you need something like that again. Also -- if you want eyes on that Galactic Endowment for the Arts proposal Allaj is working on, earlier is better. I have board meetings all week.” 

Luke thanks her and she opens the door, gives him a wave, then goes into her building. He blows out a breath, relieved and begins the drive back to the Imperial Palace.

In spite of himself, he thinks of Chiara and once he’s back at his place, listens to her message again. The second part of it stands out to him, how the words run into each other and the strange pauses between them. What was all that clumsiness about?

He clicks on her code. It goes straight to a robotic voice requesting a message be left. Luke closes the line. Has she sent him the documentation? He doesn't think so, but these past weeks have been hectic. It might just have gotten drowned by his other messages. He's tempted to search for it, but it's already late and he knows from experience, he won't be able to pull himself from it easily once he opens it -- or at all. Better to read it when he can do so at leisure. Preferably when he can have a clearer idea of when he can schedule another trip, otherwise it'll just make him want to crawl out of his skin.

He puts the comm away and goes into his meditation routine.

\--

Numerous thankful comms and a couple of planning meetings later, the funds are secured, the team making good process going over the area. Luke finds himself getting home at a decent hour. Allaj's noted the next couple of weeks look less frenzied. He might be able to spare a couple of days offplanet, though he'd need to look up where he might go.

He'd never looked for the documentation and clicks on a search for it. The way it's been, it was probably a good thing. She might have sent it at some point when his eye wouldn't be drawn into it -- maybe late at night where it'd gotten shoved down the list of messages. It's surprising he'd never even seen it though. That's a first.

Nothing comes up from the search.

That's odd. He scans his messages on the date when he last talked to her. Nothing either.

He checks again.

No message from her save the exchange about the session before last.

That’s unlike her. Had she forgot?

He goes for his comm and inputs her code. The robotic voice comes up. He closes the line, shoving down a nudging anxiety. Sibisime is on a different time than Coruscant. He's only commed her twice, and he hadn't left a message either of those times. 

Luke does now. It's predictably awkward and uncomfortable. He closes the line. He has to wait now.

He scans his messages again.

Nothing.

Summoning all his calm, he restrains the budding anxiety in favor of his routine. Chiara will comm when she's able. He listens to her message again. She will. Maybe her datapad's damaged.

One day passes with no comm nor message.

It's been a month, he thinks. A month since they'd seen each other. Even if she had some problems with whatever device she uses she should have gotten it fixed by now. Or at the least, commed to let him know.

Luke comms her again the day after, making sure this time it's mid-morning in Sibisime when he goes. The automatic message comes on. He tries again during what would be mid-afternoon. He leaves her another message on the third try, evening. It's less awkward, succinct. _I notice there's been some lag in our communication. Have you been having some difficulties with your datapad or comm? I'm just concerned. Please contact me as soon as you can. ___

Two days pass with no response of any sort.

By then he _is_ crawling out of his skin, but in an entirely different way, wondering what could have happened. His mind invents all sorts of scenarios. Did she tell the agency about the...upheaval last time? Had she told them who he was and had them terminate the contract? Would contacting them directly invite disaster?

She wouldn't. Why would she even do such a thing?

Luke's lost track of how many times he's listened to her message. He can recite it by memory, he suspects. He listens to it again anyway. She wouldn't. He's absolutely certain.

And he's about to contact the agency when a message from them arrives. 

_Dear Mr. Marcus, We hope this message finds you well. We are contacting you about your matched proctor, Ms. Chiara Lorn. We regret to inform you Ms. Lorn is no longer with the agency. We apologize for the inconvenience. Although we understand that the relationship between a beneficiary and their proctor is unique, we'd like to extend our invitation to reach out to us again about another match, if you so wish._

The response comes flying out of his fingers, the reply to that not long after:

_Dear Mr. Marcus, We understand that the sudden departure of a proctor can be distressing. Our offer for a prospective match will stand until you are ready to proceed. Unfortunately, we are not at liberty to discuss the circumstances of Ms. Lorn's departure. We apologize for the inconvenience._

No messages after that get a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for now, I'll probably be posting upcoming snippets in a "next time..." fashion on my tumblr.  
> Here they are: [Next time on Phantasmagoria](http://teagrl.tumblr.com/post/171964758992/next-time-on-phantasmagoria).
> 
> I'll be back on this after I get my ass in gear with Thresholds. Thanks for partying up this ridiculousness with me! <3


End file.
